


Mathematical Observations

by trustingHim17



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:00:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29413767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17
Summary: None of our cases were ever what they appeared at the start, but something about this one seemed different from the others.Inspired in part by a painting by paitend, found here: prnt.sc/xxhy29
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

“What in blazes are you doing?”

The incredulous question came from near the door, and I wondered why he was asking such a thing.

“Writing,” I said shortly, my tone announcing that that should have been obvious.

He probably scowled at me, but I could not be sure without looking up.

“You are not left-handed.”

I froze mid-letter before forcing myself to continue. Had I read him wrong?

“I am not,” I confirmed. “You know that.”

“Then why are you writing with your left hand?”

“My other hand got tired.”

Silence answered me as my finger brushed the paper, and I checked to make sure I had not smeared a word before speaking again. “I know you do not believe the superstition about the left hand being the Devil’s hand.”

“Of course not.” He took a step closer, watching my pen skitter over the page, but he said nothing else. Some people were so superstitious as to beat a child that tried to write with their left hand, and while most adults would not attack someone they saw writing with the “wrong” hand, they _would_ ostracize them. He had called many such ideas “absurd” more than once, but I eventually grew worried as the silence stretched. I had thought I knew him well enough to guess his reaction.

The frown on his face when I glanced up was not the reaction I had expected.

It was probably because this was so unusual, but better safe than sorry, as my father had said so many times. I would rather my hand start cramping than this cause a problem, and I muttered an apology, switched hands, and continued writing. I was almost done, anyway.

He realized immediately what I was thinking.

“No,” he said quickly. “You do not—” He cut himself off, and I glanced up, finishing the last word without looking as he stared at the page. “How did you get your left hand to write just as smoothly as your right?” he asked.

I looked between him and the finished manuscript. “What do you mean?”

He pointed at the sentence where I had switched hands. “They are nearly identical, if slanted differently. I am more ambidextrous than you, yet when I write with my left hand, the letters refuse to straighten.”

“It is just practice, Holmes. I started writing something every day, and eventually, I could write as well with my left as with my right. It is useful for if my right hand is occupied—or tired—but I’ll not do it if it bothers you so.”

He quickly shook his head. “Those superstitions are ridiculous. I just did not expect to be nearly unable to tell the writing apart. Can you teach me?”

“You already know how to write,” I answered, putting the manuscript in an envelope to keep the pages together in my desk. “It is just a matter of training your left hand to form the letters your right hand knows from memory.”

He huffed at me but did not ask again, grabbing his pipe from the mantel. “I never get your limits,” carried faintly from his chair a moment later.

I could not prevent a grin from escaping, and I kept my back to him to hide it.

“You can do it, too, if you practice enough,” I replied after a moment. “It is not hard.”

He made no answer, settling deeper into his chair as I put away my writing supplies.

“Were you wanting to do that medical lesson tonight?” I asked after a moment.

I had mentioned a new resuscitation technique I had learned at a recent medical conference, and that and a few other things were to constitute an evening’s instruction eventually. We simply had not yet had the time, with our most recent case, my writing, and the errands he had needed to do today.

Apparently, we would not be doing it tonight, either. A knock on the front door cut off his answer, and two pairs of footsteps sounded on the stairs. Mrs. Hudson opened the door as I took my seat.

“Miss Fiona Stewart,” she announced, waving a young lady into the room.

Ms. Stewart was nearly as lean as Holmes, though slightly shorter. Short, reddish brown hair framed a pale face and highlighted bright green eyes, and she walked with a spring in her step that reminded me of Mary’s joyful personality.

“Mr. Holmes?” she asked in a familiar accent, glancing between us as Mrs. Hudson went back downstairs.

“Good evening,” Holmes said, waving her towards the settee. “What can I do for you?”

“You must be Doctor Watson, then,” she said with a smile and a nod of greeting as she took a seat. She turned back to Holmes. “Did you receive my message?”

Confusion crossed Holmes’ face, swiftly covered. “We did not. Pray start at the beginning.”

“Oh, dear. I do apologize for arriving unannounced.”

“It is of no matter,” Holmes replied, brushing away her worry with a flick of his hand. I pulled out my notebook as he continued, “You would not have come all the way from Northern Ireland for something you believed unimportant.”

She stared at him in surprise. “How did you know that if you did not receive my message?”

Holmes twitched a grin but looked at me.

“Your hair is windblown as only a ferry crossing can accomplish,” I answered after a moment, “but you dripped a bit of gravy from the train supper on your skirt. As you would not take a train to reach this flat from the London docks, nor do they serve but once every five or six hours, it is most likely you came from Ireland through Liverpool. Your surname and accent are distinctly from Northern Ireland, as well.”

Holmes nodded. “A wave also wet your right shoulder near the end of the crossing,” he added, gesturing to the barely-dried patch of fabric beginning to wrinkle. “It would still be wet if you had come from the continent.”

She reflexively looked at her shirt before picking at the gravy on her leg. “Well, that is incredibly simple once you point it out,” she replied with a grin. “Yes, I came from Northern Ireland. Armagh, to be specific. My sister and I work at the observatory there under Patrick Conrad, helping with the math required in tracing the path of a comet he found. My other sister also worked there until a couple of weeks ago, when an accident took her life.”

“Her death was not what brought you here today,” Holmes said, though I wondered how he could be so sure.

She shook her head as the lingering half-smile changed to an indomitable control, a control that failed to fully hide her heavy grief. “I know not the details of the accident,” she answered, “just that she was out walking late as she always did after we argued.” She swallowed, continuing, “We found her in an alley the next morning, apparently having been run over by a carriage. What started afterwards is what brings me to you. Ciara—that’s my living sister—and I, along with Conrad, have been receiving threatening, sometimes vulgar notes. Some of them describe disgusting things the sender believes should be done to my sister and I, and all of them call for us to quit or for Conrad to fire us, relegating us to ‘women’s work.’ Other notes in a different handwriting claim to be from Kayleigh, promising revenge for the argument that killed her. Here is one of each, ones with the mildest wordings.”

She handed two scraps of paper to Holmes, who read them before passing them to me. The disgust in his gaze warned me of their content, and I purposely read the one claiming to be from the sister first.

“You are a two-face little brown-noser more concerned with the next star chart than your own sister. You will never leave me behind.”

Weak, but we had seen worse attempts at intimidation. Accompanied by other events, I could see how such a note could cause worry, and she had said the other notes got worse. I glanced at the other scrap.

I read that one in less detail than the first, disgusted at the multiple suggestions and anatomically impossible threats contained in the twenty-word note. The one sending these was either perverted or insane, and I knew which one I thought it was.

“When did these start?” Holmes asked as I copied the basics of each into my notebook.

“There have always been threats,” she answered easily. “Small-minded people—primarily men, but women, too—have no idea how to handle the idea that women have a brain just like men, but the frequency, intensity, and vulgarity picked up a few days after Kayleigh’s death. Most started coming from a single sender, and Conrad first mentioned receiving notes himself at about the same time.”

Holmes took the scraps back to look at again. “How well do the notes capture Kayleigh’s personality?”

Ms. Stewart shook her head decisively. “Not at all. Kayleigh was a beautiful person. She would never say such a thing no matter what had happened, and many of the insults are slang. I doubt she even knew what most of them mean. She was always more focused on what the numbers were doing than any words. That was my job.”

“’What the numbers were doing?’” I asked, glancing up. I had heard that phrase only once before.

She colored. “My sisters and I are extremely good at math because we see the world differently than most people. For me, every object has its own alpha-numeric sequence. Sometimes they are true words, sometimes random collections of letters and numbers, but once I learn the sequences, I can compare them to other objects and find similarities many people miss. I confirmed in minutes the irregularity of shape Conrad took days to define.

“Ciara, however, is strictly numbers. She says the numbers float through everything, defining color, shape, size, even texture. Give her the hardest math problem you can find, and she can solve it in moments using the numbers in the room. She explained advanced calculus to our schoolteachers instead of the other way around, and the only reason she is not doing mathematical research for Cambridge is because she was born female.”

The last bit came out with a tinge of frustration, and she paused, taking a deep breath. I silently commended her for her control.

“Kayleigh had geometry,” she continued calmly, stoic despite the lingering grief in her posture, “primarily repeating geometry. She said everything had shapes that parse into smaller shapes, some of which repeat indefinitely. A table might break into thousands of rectangles, while her notebook divided into triangles. I never could see a pattern to her shapes, but she could. She could look at something, break it down into its pieces, and tell you how big the object was and its composition, all before Conrad could focus his telescope. Between the three of us, we helped Conrad project possible trajectories for his comet as well as define its composition, size, and shape.”

I had heard of this in my medical studies but only seen something similar once before, in one of my early university classes. The professor’s assistant had been unable to tie his own shoes but could coherently explain the fundamentals of algebra and analytic geometry.

“And you and your sisters have always excelled at math?” I asked.

She nodded. “From earliest childhood. Our parents were confused but supportive, and they fought the gender divide for us to receive the schooling we needed. No one else in our family has shown signs of doing anything similar, and we have never met another like us.”

“I have,” I replied, noting the way her eyes lit up at the idea, “though it manifested slightly differently. One of the assistants at my university could tell you everything you never wanted to know about algebra, though I’m not sure he had the coherence of speech to describe how he knew what he did in terms anyone else could understand.”

She chuckled at my wording, eagerly leaning forward on the settee. “Is he still there? Which school did you attend?”

I shook my head. “Finn had some medical issues at the time, and his mathematical competency offset the fact that he needed constant care. His funeral was the year I graduated. I do, however, remember reading about a similar ability later. I can try to find that old textbook, if you would like.”

She nodded quickly, her disappointment at being unable to meet someone like her fading behind excitement at the idea of putting a name to what made her unique. “Please!”

“You say Kayleigh was walking the streets after an argument?” Holmes asked as I noted that down. “Could the sender know of this?”

“I have no idea how,” she said after a moment to consider. “It hardly qualified as an argument, anyway. The three of us shared rooms, and we had a large deadline the next week. The admittedly loud discussion that sent her on a walk was more high stress than anything. We would not have even mentioned it on her return.”

“Have there been any other occurrences besides the notes?”

She hesitated. “There is a small lake on the observatory grounds,” she finally said. “Kayleigh often went there to unwind after a long day. If I didn’t know better, I would say she was haunting her old spot. Twice now, I’ve seen a tall woman in flowing white staring out over the water. She always disappears before I can get close.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “Can you describe her?”

Ms. Stewart shook her head. “All I am able to see is that she is the right height and shape to be Kayleigh. She is wearing a flowing white dress, and she only appears when the light is imperfect enough to muddle her figure. The first night I saw her was extremely foggy, and her dress nearly glowed in the faint light. Ciara has seen her three times, the last the night before Conrad agreed I should come to you.”

“What is his view on this?” I asked. “Has he voiced an opinion?”

She nodded. “He called it ‘despicable.’ Conrad has never treated us differently because of our gender, and he has stood up for us to his colleagues more than once. A couple of them have stopped working with Conrad because he hired us, but he doesn’t care. He agreed immediately when I suggested coming to you, as his own attempts to trace the harassment have gotten nowhere. Ciara and I cannot properly grieve Kayleigh with someone using her name like this.”

“How long have you worked at the observatory?” Holmes continued.

“A little over a year. Our mother’s brother works in one of the other departments—I forget which one. We are not close—and he suggested us when Conrad and several others were bemoaning all the calculations that go into astronomy. None of the others would take us when they discovered our gender, but Conrad called them idiots and hired all three of us. We have gotten further in Conrad’s research in the last two months than any of them have in the last year, largely due to Ciara’s prowess. What the others must calculate by hand she can figure in seconds, then she scribbles down the process for our records.”

“Do you know who might be doing this?” That was usually Holmes’ final question, and I knew we were drawing to a close. I hoped this case had captured his attention as it had mine.

She shook her head ruefully. “That is why our own investigation has gone nowhere. We go only to work and back to our rooms, and neither Ciara nor I know of any enemies. The notes appear in the communal mailbox addressed to one of us, and while I am sure other people tried to get the position we have, I would have expected them to be over it by now.”

He did not answer for a moment, reviewing what she had told us and giving me a chance to finish writing.

“Are you going back tonight?” he asked.

“I would not arrive until after midnight,” she answered, obviously wishing she could. “I didn’t want to leave Ciara alone, but she promised me she would stay at the observatory with Conrad. We spend so many nights there anyway, working, that purposely doing so once will not matter.”

“There is a decent boarding house nearby,” I told her, “near the Diogenes club. It is reputable, safe, and the rates are affordable.”

She nodded her thanks, taking the note on which I scribbled an address.

“The next train leaves at eight tomorrow,” Holmes told her a moment later, “so if you will be ready by seven, we will meet you in the lobby. We can discuss fees on the journey.”

Relief bloomed in her expression as she realized we would take the case. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes, Doctor.”

Leaving her card as well as our final address in the event we were separated in the morning, the door shut behind her a moment later. I broke the silence almost immediately.

“You suspect something more than just harassment.” I did, too, but I wanted to know why _he_ thought so. I could not put this induction into words.

He nodded hesitantly but said nothing.

“What?”

He still refused to answer. “Something is not lining up, but I cannot be sure without more information. Pack for several days’ journey. I expect this one will take at least a week.”

Mrs. Hudson opened the door, and he directed the topic to other matters over supper and declined to answer when I brought it up again later. I quickly located the medical text I remembered, and, leaving only briefly to get another copy, I packed and went to bed early.

None of our cases were ever what they appeared at the start, but something about this one seemed different from the others. I could only hope that premonition did not bode ill for either of us.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning saw us on a train headed north. Ms. Stewart had met us in the hotel lobby just before seven—protesting my greeting with “call me Fiona. My sisters and I do not care for titles”—and we had arrived at the station with minutes to spare. The three of us found an empty compartment, and the first several minutes of the trip were spent negotiating our fees. Holmes did almost all the talking, as he had a better understanding of the negotiation than I did, but conversation eventually drifted to other things. Even Holmes partook in our discussion, at ease around someone else in a way I had not seen since Mary was alive.

“What got you interested in astronomy?” I asked several hours into our journey, after she had described in detail much of what they were trying to determine about this comet.

“Working for Conrad,” she answered with a faint smirk. “I had no idea what I wanted to do when we got out of school. Ciara wanted to do research, and Kayleigh wanted to be an engineer, but neither of them could get into their field due to our gender. I never saw a reason to hope for a certain career when the way I was born would bar me before I started. Uncle Ron’s help in gaining an interview with Conrad prevented me from suggesting we change our names to Ciar, Kyle, and Fionn.”

Holmes’ mouth twitched in the grin I allowed to escape. I could easily see her reinventing herself as a man just to follow her passion.

“You would not be the first to do that,” I replied, “and I daresay you would not be the last.” One of Holmes’ former clients had done as much when not on her ship, and we had had a couple of Irregulars over the years that frequently disguised themselves as young boys.

“Ciara and Kayleigh would not have enjoyed it as much,” she admitted, “but they probably would have done it rather than take governess jobs and never see each other except holidays. The three of us have always been close. Thankfully, Uncle Ron negated that option. We were very happy at the observatory until Kayleigh…” her words trailed off, and she turned away to hide the flash of grief at the name. Again, I found myself commending her strength. More than once, she had said her late sister’s name without hesitation, and while she had not said exactly how long it had been, she _had_ said the loss was extremely recent. Grief manifests in different ways for different people, and she was handling hers remarkably well.

“We will do all we can,” I promised, unsure if my dislike at her grief had anything to do with her behavioral resemblance to Mary.

She gave me a tremulous smile, but the conductor announcing our station cut off her reply. Conversation did not resume until we reached the ferry, and then it was mostly stories to pass the time.

* * *

“I believe you neglected to mention something,” Holmes announced as we got off the train.

Ms. Stewart grinned mischievously, and I handed her to the platform before looking over at Holmes.

He had been turning to look at Ms. Stewart, but at my questioning expression, he cut his eyes to a particular spot in the crowd.

“I knew you would figure it out soon enough,” she said as I followed his gaze, “and it had no bearing on my story, at least initially.”

I saw immediately what he had noticed first, and I allowed a smile to show as Ciara Stewart gave her sister a hug.

“I must agree with Holmes on this one,” I told them, understanding why they do not care for titles. “You might have mentioned that you are identical triplets.”

Ciara threw her head back in a merry laugh. “For shame, sister,” she said, eyes twinkling above a wide smile, “that you would neglect to mention such an important bit of information!”

Fiona airily brushed off the comment, draping her arm over Ciara’s shoulders as she did so. “Mr. Holmes is supposed to be able to deduce your life at a glance,” she replied, still grinning impishly, “and he certainly deduced enough about me. How was I supposed to know he could not tell there were three of me on first look?”

The amusement twitching Holmes’ mouth nearly escaped. “There are limits to deduction,” was his only reply, however, and I could not resist comment.

“Can I get that in writing?”

He scowled at me as the sisters laughed, but Fiona spoke before I could properly greet Ciara.

“Is Conrad here?”

Ciara shook her head. “He had to go back to the observatory. Apparently, the monsieur required his presence at a meeting. He probably tried to make me attend, too, if I understood Conrad’s mumbling correctly.”

The title nearly came out as another word, one resembling an English descriptor more than the French prefix, and Fiona rolled her eyes.

“Call him what he is,” she said. “I doubt our guests will mind, and I bet the monster chose the time because he discovered my train was due.”

Ciara merely shrugged, and Fiona turned back toward us.

“’The monster’ is Conrad’s boss’ boss,” she said. “He’s this crazy, old Frenchman who demands everyone call him by the French prefix, and he hates the sound of English and Irish. He might be the worst of the other astronomers. The only reason he did not block our hiring or get us fired before we started is because O’Neill—that’s Conrad’s direct supervisor—approved the hiring before the monster had a chance to speak his mind.”

“He is not all bad,” Ciara protested. “He was one of the first to offer to search for Kayleigh.”

Fiona hesitated. “Alright, I grant him that. He was supportive that day, as well, much more so than many of the others, but he is still a sexist—” and here she used an Irish word I recognized as a slightly more than mild insult. I decided not to reveal that I understood, though Holmes’ expression declared that _he_ knew I had understood the word.

“Fiona!”

The girls turned in unison, and I followed the voice to see a short, red-haired man hurrying toward us. Streaks of grey around his temples announced him older than I, but his quick step and rapidity of speech belied any suggestion of dotage.

“I am glad to see you back safely, young lady,” he said with a smile, “and you must be Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson.” He shook our hands. “Patrick Conrad. Pleased to meet you, and that you decided to come!” He waved us out of the crowd, leading the way off the platform though his words never slowed. “The harassment is most troublesome. I have been trying to trace the source myself, without any luck. Irritating, it is, knowing that the messages must come from only a certain number of people yet being unable to do anything about it. We just had another note last night. If you did not come, I was going to take them to the police in the morning.”

Holmes was beginning to look put-upon by the sheer volume of words coming out of Conrad’s mouth, but Fiona’s amusement at Holmes’ reaction tempered slightly as she drifted closer to her sister. Conrad’s words went uninterrupted.

“Despicable behavior it is, that so many let gender dictate career. Why, they have taken my research further than I ever could alone!”

“Now, Conrad—” Ciara tried to break in.

“Don’t you ‘now, Conrad’ me!” He shook his finger at her like a father correcting a misbehaving child. “You three have done just as much of the work as I have. It is no wonder we are pulling so far ahead of my colleagues, and they still try to obstruct us. You probably guessed that ridiculous meeting was staged. I told them what to do with it, you can be sure. Some of them might lay off after today.”

I felt a smile try to escape, just as amused at the visual of this short, firecracker of an Irishman berating misogynic colleagues as at the decided discomfort in Holmes’ expression. This was what I had expected on the train ride here, and I found it doubly amusing that an energetic astronomer had done what a mischievous young lady had not.

“What have you been able to determine about the notes?” I interjected when he paused for breath.

His answer took us well into the observatory campus, using a lot of words to convey, “Not a whole lot.” As Fiona had said, the notes were delivered to an unmonitored mail room. Any one of the observatory employees or even frequent guests could have left them, and while the handwriting of each kind of note was nearly the same each time, none of them could recognize it.

“Kayleigh might have been able to,” Fiona said sadly as Conrad led us to an office building. “Handwriting analysis is just parsing shapes, but I have not seen many people’s handwriting since we started here. I don’t recognize any of the sequences.”

Ciara squeezed her hand, but silence fell until Conrad closed the office door behind us.

“Here,” he said, digging a stack of notes out of a locked filing cabinet. “These were addressed to me.” He pulled out a second stack, “and these are what we have kept of the ones addressed to each of them.”

“How many did you throw out?” I asked as Holmes and I started sifting through the piles.

Ciara shrugged. “We had no reason to keep any of them before K—before the accident. Those files start a day or two later, when they increased in number.”

I had the stack purportedly from the vengeful sister. While they had fewer of these than the vulgar threats, each one varied from angry sadness to promised retribution for moving on so quickly. Many accused them of forgetting her, replacing her, or denying her existence, and each probably birthed a new wave of grief that kept them from acknowledging her and moving on. No wonder Fiona was so stoic whenever Kayleigh’s name came up.

Holmes glanced over my shoulder, then looked again, and one of Conrad’s notes as well as one of the more vulgar threats landed next to the scrap I had been reading.

“Compare them,” he told me when I raised an eyebrow, watching to see if I would spot what he had noticed immediately.

I had no wish to read the ribald words coloring each of the other notes, but I skimmed the contents, finding nothing. What did he want me to see?

I tried again, aware of four pairs of eyes on me now as the sisters and Conrad waited to hear what we had found. Holmes rarely gave me a chance to find for myself what he had already observed, and I would not fail him.

What did the notes have in common? All were written on the same kind of paper using a fountain pen. All had a name scrawled on the outside in a handwriting similar enough to be a hastier version of whoever wrote the inside. All had roughly the same phrasing, and occasionally, roughly the same letter shapes…

Wait. That was it. I ignored the words to compare the letters in Kayleigh’s note to the threats on the other two scraps. That _g_ was looped the same, and the _t_ in other words all had the same twirl.

“It is one person,” I announced, smiling faintly as I noted more similarities, “writing the threats with his—or her, but probably his—right hand but the notes from Kayleigh with his left.”

“How can you tell?” Ciara asked.

Holmes leaned against a cabinet, the pleasure in his gaze conveying that he wanted me to answer, and I pulled my notebook from my jacket pocket.

“The way the words are slanted,” I answered, writing my name with first my right hand, then my left, and ignoring Ciara’s surprise when she saw me change hands so easily. “See how my _t_ slants one way with my right, but the opposite with my left? Compare the notes. His _g,_ _t,_ and _n_ have the same shape but slant opposite directions. He is ambidextrous, whether learned or naturally.”

“Why ‘he?’” Conrad asked.

I glanced at the notes, able to see it but not describe it, and looked up at Holmes.

“Women usually have more decorative handwriting,” he answered, pushing himself off the cabinet to grab one of the notes. “They waste time and ink on loops, swirling their way through their words to make them beautiful instead of simply legible. Men do not care about that. A man’s writing is usually much closer to the block text in a newspaper than anything else. Look at how the slightly looping font fades back into block text every few letters. Whoever is writing these has noticed some of the differences in handwritings—he is married—but he was not able to imitate her handwriting even when writing the notes supposedly from Kayleigh.”

An idea struck me, something I remembered reading in that medical text, and I broke in before Conrad could reply, directing my question at Fiona and Ciara. “Are you and your sister left-handed?”

Caution appeared in Ciara’s face, but Fiona shook her head after a moment’s hesitation. “Kayleigh and Ciara are ciotóg. I am mostly right-handed. Why?”

“High probability,” I said shortly, quickly translating the slang word for left-handedness. That was a discussion for later, when I gave them the book in my luggage, “but that shows he knows at least something about you, to write Kayleigh’s notes with his left hand. It is possible you know this person.”

Conrad sighed. “That hardly narrows anything down. Over half the men who work here disagree with my actions, most of them are married, and some of them are crude enough in speech and action that while I doubt they would carry out a threat, they would not hesitate to write one.”

“It is a lead, however,” Holmes replied, “and the wording in these tells me quite a bit about the person. I doubt it will take long to pinpoint him.”


	3. Chapter 3

The observatory saw enough visitors on a regular basis that a small inn had been established on campus, and it was to here that Ciara and Fiona led us a few minutes later. Conrad had gone to set up for the evening’s work, but he had told the sisters not to rush back, that he could do without them for a while.

“What did you mean by ‘high probability,’ Doctor?” Fiona asked, obviously the more forward of the two.

“I did a bit of reading last night,” I answered, “but that is best discussed in privacy.”

Excitement lit her face, understanding exactly what I meant, but she said nothing more until the four of us were safely ensconced in Holmes’ and my sitting room.

“What did you find?” she asked quickly. Ciara looked at her, confused, and she answered the unspoken question, “Doctor Watson has met someone like us before, and he mentioned reading about it as well.”

Ciara looked at me with interest. “Seriously, Doctor? There is a name for what we can do?”

I nodded. “Georg Sachs of Germany wrote about one variation in 1812 when his dissertation referenced ‘colored vowels.’ It’s called synesthesia. Some people describe tasting words or seeing music, and what you describe sounds like what is known as ‘number form.’ Chapter twelve discusses what little we know about it.” I handed the book to Fiona, who flipped through it as I continued, “It is considered part of psychology, and as such is not well researched, but a tendency toward left handedness has been noticed. Grapheme to color synesthesia is the most common.”

“Grapheme to color?” Ciara repeated. “They see letters with color?”

“Yes. Fiona said numbers define everything around you?” She nodded. “That is similar to but much stronger than what the book describes as ‘number form.’”

Fiona focused on a particular sentence. “Why is it discussed as something to be ‘cured?’” she asked sharply.

“For the same reason the other astronomers do not like you working here,” I replied, and her gaze shot up to meet mine. “People do not like what is different. Different does not have to mean wrong, however.”

She relaxed, smiling hesitantly, and we discussed the book for a few more minutes before they took their leave. They offered to show us around the observatory tonight, but I let Holmes suggest tomorrow for both of us. Supper and a quiet evening were my sole interests.

“Where are you going?”

Holmes, of course, had other plans, and he waved off my question as he opened the door. “You know the best time to inspect new surroundings is when your arrival is largely unknown,” he answered. “I will be back in a few hours.”

I sighed, relaxing into my chair. At least he had not asked me to accompany him. I was tired from the day’s travel, and I had already started the first page of the novel I had packed when the door clicked shut.

He returned two hours after supper.

“Find anything?” I asked.

He affected a scowl, ducking into his room to change clothes.

“For people supposedly more interested in space than Earth,” he griped when he reentered the sitting room, “astronomers are far too observant. At least three people recognized me, and two of them insisted on telling me about their favorite case. I got a good idea of the pertinent buildings on campus, but it would have been better to do so without notice.”

“This is a small town, Holmes,” I reminded him, turning a page near the end of my book. “I would be more surprised if no one recognized you. I thought you enjoyed the reactions?”

His huff of irritation carried across the room. “Not when I am trying to pass unnoticed. I should have spent more time on my disguise.”

I buried a grin in my book. Counting on the darkness to cover him and the streets to be empty with everyone working, he had gone almost as himself. While not exactly a catastrophic mistake, he was unlikely to repeat it, if only to not have to listen to someone praise the stories he claimed to despise.

“Are you done for the night?” I asked after a minute, setting the finished book aside. He nodded, and I gestured toward the cold cuts I had saved him from the hotel supper. “Good. Eat something, and we can do that medical lesson. If we put it off much longer, this case will pick up and we will never get to it.”

He pulled a face but did as I suggested. The lessons themselves always irritated him, as while he enjoyed having the knowledge, he never enjoyed the learning process. Part of the reason we had put this one off for so long was because the lesson was sure to test our patience—mine in teaching, and his in practicing a new skill enough times to truly learn it.

He had never claimed the medical lessons were useless, though, and I resolved myself to an hour or two spent arguing with him.

* * *

Holmes was gone by the time I woke the next morning, probably off tracing a lead discovered but not mentioned the night before. I waited breakfast on him for nearly half an hour before finally eating alone.

He found me in the dining room as I finished, a bushy, black beard protruding from a pocket. I offered to sit while he ate, but he grabbed a piece of toast before waving me out the door.

“What did you find?” I asked once we reached the street. Thin tendrils of fog swirled above the cobblestones, drifting here and there as if leading the way.

“Apparently, Conrad is not the only astronomer that likes to talk,” he answered, affecting a scowl when I smirked. “I found the employee dining hall, and they were quite willing to tell me about the three sisters Conrad stole from the rest of them.”

I stared at him for a moment, making sure I had heard him correctly. “That Conrad _stole_ from them?” I laughed. “That is hardly the story Conrad gave us. Which is true?”

“Conrad’s,” he answered decisively, his own amusement trying to escape. “O’Neill was there, too, and he told them to hold their tongues and quit complaining, that they had had their chance. Most of Conrad’s colleagues would be willing to hire the Stewarts after seeing their work, but there is no way Conrad will let go of them now.”

“So they complain and make life difficult for the girls instead,” I finished, shaking my head. “They are all old enough to know that will just make the Stewarts work harder.”

“Of course.” He turned at the next corner, hesitating until I caught up, and I wondered where we were going. “That also explains why some were willing to help when it mattered, the morning Kayleigh went missing. Only a few of those men hold true ill will toward the Stewarts.”

“Do you have a suspect?”

He shook his head. “Not yet. Even those who truly dislike the sisters do not have motive enough to do anything.”

“I would imagine this is why you directed me toward the office building,” I replied dryly. “Who am I interviewing and why?”

I usually waited for him to tell me, and he feigned irritation that I had called him out.

“O’Neill is Conrad’s boss,” he reminded me. “Get him talking about the Stewarts. I need to know what he knows about the notes, and if he knows nothing as I suspect, tell him and note his reaction. See if he has any idea who might be behind it. There must be _some_ way of narrowing the list from the entire observatory campus.”

The final sentence revealed how frustrated he was growing with the lack of leads, and I hoped I would be able to help.

“Which office is his?”

The office building appeared out of the thickening fog, and Holmes lurched forward to open the door.

“Last door on the right,” he answered, pointing down the left-hand hallway. “I will meet you outside of Conrad’s office.”

I nodded, quickly finding the door marked “O’Neill” and knocking. Holmes disappeared in the other direction.

“Iontrail,” carried faintly to the hall, and I resisted the urge to grin as I opened the door. No wonder Holmes had wanted me to interview Mr. O’Neill. Holmes’ Irish was far from fluent.

Appearing several years older than Conrad, Mr. O’Neill was a ruddy-faced man, stoutly built, with callus-covered hands Holmes would probably tie to farming despite having noticed very little farmland in the area. He sat behind a tall, light brown desk covered in so many papers the desktop had long since vanished, and he had been hunched over some of those papers until I opened the door.

“Bhuel,” he said as I entered, stretching the word in his surprise. He continued in heavily accented English, “if it isn’t Doctor Watson. Is Mr. Holmes around here, then?”

My amusement finally escaped as a faint chuckle. “I am not sure where he is. We were hoping you would be able to answer some questions.”

He waved me toward a chair. “Aon fhadhb ar chor ar bith,” he said, then quickly apologized. “Not a problem at all,” he translated himself. “Do tell me if I do that. My students remind me constantly to ‘speak English!’”

_“We can speak Irish,”_ I offered, _“if that is easier for you.”_

A wide grin split his face, and his pen landed on his desk as he sat fully upright.

_“Oh, laddie! It is nice to hear my own language.”_ He pulled his chair around to the side of his desk, removing the barrier between us as I took a seat. _“What can I do for you?”_

_“What can you tell me about the Stewart sisters?”_

A frown replaced some of the delight at speaking his native tongue. _“Sweet girls. Hard workers, too. A shame to hear about Kayleigh. Many of the others wish Ciara and Fiona would work for them as well, but the girls are loyal to Conrad by now.”_

_“They are,”_ I agreed, _“but I do not believe they expected, much less appreciate, the harassment that is interfering with their grief.”_

_“Harassment? What harassment?”_ He studied me. _“Is that why you are here?”_

I hesitated for only a moment before nodding. I knew of no reason to hide the purpose of our case when Holmes wanted him to know about the letters.

_“You know nothing about the vile threats they have been receiving?”_ I described generally the contents of the notes.

_“No.”_ He scowled darkly, reaching to grab a scrap of paper nearby. _“Whoever is sending them will not have a job for much longer. Have you located the person yet?”_

I indicated a negative. _“That is part of why I came to you. Do you know anyone who might be doing this?”_

He paused, thinking. _“I do not believe my employees would do more than talk. Lot of blowhards, they are, but none truly dangerous. They know I would boot them if they did such a thing, and all of their research would stay with the observatory.”_

_“What about any others? Have you noticed anything in the other departments? Or even former employees that have stayed in the area?”_

He started to shake his head before stopping. _“Nothing in the other departments,”_ he answered, _“but I know of three men who used to work in this building that never fully left the campus.”_ He passed the scrap of paper containing three scrawled names. _“I know not if they would do anything of this nature, but one of them might be more likely than anyone currently here. Two were fired for stealing or reading private material.”_

I slipped the paper into my pocket. _“Would those men be able to access the communal mail room?”_

His scowl deepened. _“They have been using the employee mail room to deliver this filth?!”_

_“They have,”_ I confirmed, _“and the notes themselves indicate the person knows at least a little about the sisters. He is trying to imitate Kayleigh’s handwriting.”_

Disgust and irritation came out in a faint growl. _“The mail room is unguarded. Anyone who knows where it is can reach it easily, but it will not remain unguarded for much longer. Is there a pattern for when these notes arrive?”_

_“If there is, I don’t know it.”_

He nodded, obviously planning to watch the room himself for a while, but a heavy knock sounded on the door before I could decide on another question.

“O’Neill!” a man called in a thick French accent. “I know you are in there!”

He rolled his eyes, moving his chair back behind his desk as I stood.

_“I believe that is all my questions for now,”_ I told him as the pounding continued, _“but I would ask that you not announce our investigation.”_

He nodded again. _“Of course. My apologies for the interruption. He can be most…insistent. Let me know if there is any way I can help. I will not put up with such nonsense in my department.”_

I tried to cover a smile, glad that not everyone here was so against the girls. _“It is no problem, and certainly.”_

He showed me to the door, opening it just before another round of pounding could begin.

“Doctor,” he said in farewell, continuing as I brushed past who must be the “monster,” according to the Stewarts. “Hello, Mr. Durand.”

_“Monsieur_ Durand,” he corrected immediately, pushing into the room without a glance at me. “We have discussed that.” The door closed behind him, and the thickly accented words became unintelligible when muffled by a door.

I walked down the hall and around a corner, glad the building was not large. The hallway outside Conrad’s office was deserted for only a moment before Holmes hurried down the hall in front of me, Fiona close behind.

“Excellent timing, Watson!” he said, waving me to follow Fiona out the door. “Ms. Fiona says the lady is in Kayleigh’s spot.”

Fiona scowled at him for the title, but he ignored it as we rushed out the door and away from the main cluster of buildings. She led us toward the lake overlapping the edge of the observatory grounds.

“I saw her about five minutes ago,” she told us, “and I came straight to find you. She always disappears when I get close, but there is a chance she will still be there.”

“Was she doing anything?” Holmes asked, and Fiona shook her head.

“Just staring over the water.”

She stopped behind a thick cluster of trees in sight of the lake, pointing toward a peninsula jutting out into the water. “See her?”

A tall woman in a white dress stood at the water’s edge, just barely visible through the fog. Her long hair seemed to float in a non-existent breeze, drifting behind her with an ephemeral quality.

“Stay here, Ms. Fiona, and watch her,” Holmes said, eyes on the figure. “Watson, make your way toward that peninsula. I will circle and approach from the other side.”

He disappeared into the fog, moving much faster than I could ever hope to, and I left Fiona leaning against a tree as I hurried towards that narrow strip of land.

The fog not only muffled the woman’s shape, but it amplified any noise I made. I tried to walk quietly, but I had no idea if I succeeded before I rounded the last set of trees to see Holmes standing near the start of the peninsula. He waved me forward, and the two of us easily covered the small patch of ground, slowly searching for the woman.

The peninsula was empty, and we could find no sign that she had even been there.

“She must have heard us—or just me—coming,” I said lowly. “The fog amplifies every sound we make.”

He nodded, looking for the copse of trees where we had left Fiona.

“She is pointing at something,” he muttered after a moment, “but what?”

He moved away as I looked for our client, finding her in full view on the low hill. I could faintly make out her energetic gesturing toward the middle of the lake.

“Aha! Watson!”

His voice led me to a thick patch of bushes on the edge of the peninsula. I had thought they grew from the water, but pushing one branch aside revealed a small patch of mud, just large enough to beach a one-person boat. Shallow grooves in the mud showed that this was how the lady had escaped.

“She pushed off just before you came in sight,” Fiona told us when we rejoined her by the trees. “You missed her by less than a minute.”

“Did you see where she went?” Holmes asked.

“Straight into the fog,” was the answer, and Fiona pointed toward the middle of the lake. “I was told there is a dock in that direction, but I have never been able to find it.”

Holmes noted the direction but turned us back toward the buildings. He would probably return alone later.

“Have you found anything yet?” Fiona asked as we walked.

A glance at Holmes granted permission, and I detailed my conversation with Mr. O’Neill. Fiona’s attention turned to heavy amusement when she heard that the others wanted their help now, too.

“Those old cods,” she said, modifying a slang word to become a descriptor instead of a verb, “but he is right. I have no wish to work for them after the things they have said, and I doubt Ciara does, either. It is good to know few of them truly wish us ill, though.”

“Mr. Durand interrupted before he could say as much,” I continued, “but I imagine Mr. O’Neill will start guarding the mail room. Why did you not go to him before now?”

She shrugged. “With no idea who was doing it, we had no idea who we could trust. All of us like O’Neill but decided not to risk telling him on the chance he was responsible. How did you know he was safe?”

“Position of power,” Holmes answered shortly. “If he wanted you and your sister gone, he could do it; he did not need Conrad to fire you. His left hand proved his innocence.”

I thought about it for a moment, trying to picture his hand when he moved his chair around the desk, but Fiona spoke before I could admit defeat.

“What about his hand?”

Holmes would not have released his amusement quite so readily for any other client, and again I wondered what made Fiona different. “He is not married,” he answered, “and his desk’s layout revealed he is most assuredly right-handed.”

I nearly chuckled at my own blindness. Of course. The desk in his office had papers stacked over every square inch, but he sat on the far left side, reaching for everything with his right hand. He would never be able to write with his off hand.

“You see, but you do not observe,” I quoted quietly, grinning when Holmes glanced over at me. “I should have spotted that.”

“What now?” Fiona asked before Holmes could reply.

“Now,” Holmes answered, “Watson goes with you to the observatory, while I chase a few leads better explored alone. Tell Conrad I will stop by his office just before supper to look at the notes again.”

He disappeared into the fog, and I followed Fiona toward the building containing the large, domed ceiling in the middle of campus. She started telling me about the work they would be doing tonight, and I dared to hope I would get to look through the telescope while we were here. I had thoroughly enjoyed stargazing as a child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iontrail = enter  
> Bhuel = well


	4. Chapter 4

Throughout the day, Fiona, Ciara, and Conrad explained pieces of the work they did, and I quickly saw why Conrad so valued the Stewarts’ help. They were hard workers, but even while working, they never stopped talking. Jokes, banter, and discussion crossed the room nonstop, and I thoroughly enjoyed both listening to them and occasionally joining in. If this was how they acted with the grief of Kayleigh’s loss still fresh, I could not imagine how much fun this room would be when they were at ease.

Conrad took a break from his research at one point to show me a couple of his sketches, but they spent most of the day with star charts, reference books, and far too many numbers. My comparatively basic understanding of the night sky helped immensely when they started comparing start charts and projected trajectories, letting me keep up with their discussion even if I could not contribute, but I understood very little of the math the Stewarts shot back and forth across the room.

“Lost in a whirl of numbers, Doctor?” Ciara’s sympathetic voice asked when her rapid conversation with Fiona left me watching their interaction more than listening to their words.

“Something like that,” I said with a laugh. “I have not heard so much math since my university days. Medicine hardly needs anything complicated.”

“Well, I am certain a medical discussion would lose us just as quickly,” Fiona said. “Does he leave you behind often when he is ‘chasing leads,’ as he put it?”

“Occasionally,” I answered without rancor. “He has a plan of some sort, probably involving a disguise, and I do not need to know what it is yet.” Having me here also provided another layer of protection for the Stewarts, and I wondered if he expected foul play despite Kayleigh’s death being an accident. I would not say as much, however. “I am well used to it by now, and he always catches me up eventually.”

A question in the form of a complex mathematical equation carried from where Conrad stood in the corner, and Ciara’s immediate reply redirected further conversation. I sat back in my spot near the door, alert and ready in case of trouble but mostly enjoying watching the three of them talk back and forth. Conrad’s words never slowed no matter how busy he was, and the sisters’ bickering reminded me of the few times I had seen Mrs. Hudson and her sister in the same room.

Conversation varied greatly over the day, anything from work-related debates to teasing banter. They included me in much of it, but one comment midafternoon made me struggle not to react.

_“Can you believe the famous detectives are at our observatory?”_

Fiona voiced the question in Irish, and I decided to open a book instead of revealing my fluency. I already considered the three of them friends, and earlier, the Stewarts had allowed me to be caught in the crossfire of a prank Fiona had played on Conrad. I knew them well enough to know that, while embarrassed at whatever she said, Fiona would see the revenge prank for what it was when I eventually told her.

_“Do you really want to discuss this now?”_ Ciara asked.

I felt their gazes on me. _“The stories said he is horrible at languages,”_ Fiona said, _“that Mr. Holmes is the wordsmith. I doubt he can understand us.”_

I fought to blank my expression. I had added that line on purpose, giving Holmes some of my fluency with languages. Suspects were much more willing to discuss plans when they did not believe the detective’s assistant could understand.

Ciara hesitated, but shook her head in answer. _“No, I can’t believe it. How many nights did the three of us pass an evening reading the Strand? We have had to replace some of the copies multiple times when they started coming apart.”_

_“I need to get another copy of ‘A Study in Scarlet.’”_ Fiona said sadly. _“The binding broke behind the first chapter last night.”_

A notebook landed firmly on a table, and I glanced up as Ciara hid her grief in the pages. _“Where Kayleigh put comments in the margins?”_

Fiona nodded. _“We will have to be careful with it, otherwise pages will start falling out.”_

Ciara made no answer, eventually changing the topic. _“Do you think he would tell us anything if we asked about Mary? He is not wearing his ring, and you said they were both at Baker Street?”_

I quickly smothered the mix of surprise and grief that reared at that name. Everyone in London had seen her obituary, and many of our other clients so far had either already known or brazenly asked what they had no right to know. I was grateful Fiona and Ciara had not done the same. Mary’s memory was as precious to me now as it had been at her passing, and I did not discuss her with many others.

_“They were,”_ Fiona replied, _“and Mrs. Hudson was in the middle of cooking supper at the time.”_

I would not mind telling them, however, if they asked, but I could not answer them now without revealing my prank. They had not yet taken the conversation far enough to make me reveal I understood.

I might be able to tell them silently, though. I flipped several pages at once, holding my place with my right hand as I pretended to compare the chapters. Ciara noticed immediately.

_“Oh, no.”_

_“What?”_

Ciara paused before answering, probably gesturing at the ring I wore on my third finger. I had wanted to keep something of Mary with me, and the ring was the simplest. The tradition was not widespread, but some places followed it more than others.

_“Look at his hand.”_

Fiona sighed as I straightened the pages. _“That is why he has not mentioned her. I wonder what happened.”_

_“Well,_ I _wonder what you are going to do about it,”_ Ciara replied, her tone only half-jesting. _“Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you look at him.”_

Amusement bloomed, and I tried not to grin as I set the book aside. I was going to react to something if I did not busy myself, and that was _not_ a conversation we needed to have right now. I was glad a friendship had started during our time here, but while I honestly liked spending the days in the observatory, I would never marry again. I would not replace Mary like that.

Fiona’s face reddened. _“We are their clients,”_ she answered sharply, _“no matter that we might become friends, and I certainly will not say anything now. You know I had hoped to meet her when I went to London.”_

Mary would have loved them. The playful mischief I had seen between the sisters—even muted as it was with grief—reminded me of Mary’s lighthearted antics, particularly when she felt I had been working too hard. Mary would have joined in their pranks and suggested her own. They would have been fast friends.

Ciara’s jesting subsided. _“I know. Maybe he will bring her up on his own, eventually, if it has been long enough.”_

Not right now, I answered silently, aiming for Conrad’s desk, but maybe in a day or two, if the topic arose. I would need the time to quell the grief their unexpected conversation had sparked.

“Know anything about the gravitational effects of a nearby planet on a comet?” Conrad asked as I wandered closer. I did not try to stifle my laugh.

“Only if it is the same as what happens when two magnets get too close together,” I answered.

“It is similar,” he answered to my surprise. He started explaining what to look for in a list of tabulated data, and within a few minutes, I settled at a nearby desk.

The Stewarts’ conversation moved into whether I would ever remarry. This conversation alone would provide ample payback for Fiona’s mischief.

* * *

I beat Holmes back to the rooms that night, as he had probably gone back to Conrad’s office about the time I left the observatory. I was not alone for long, however, before the door opened behind me.

“Productive day?”

He waved off the question, ducking into his room without answering.

“I traced the names O’Neill provided you,” he said when he returned, dressed and ready for supper. “None of them have been seen in the area for weeks.”

“Any chance of an accomplice delivering the notes?”

He shook his head. “Very little, at least of those names. All of them are married, but a woman would be noticed before any of the men, especially in this building. Hours spent loitering in breakrooms and dining halls revealed no visitors in over a month.”

“You will find something.”

He huffed a laugh. “I have _found_ plenty, but none of it is useful. The landlord trapped me for nearly an hour talking about the fire that destroyed the bed in the empty room down the hall, but he could tell me nothing about the comings and goings of his tenants in the last fortnight.”

My own amusement tried to break free. “So not only astronomers are loquacious?” I asked, pulling myself to my feet.

That huff was more irritation. “We have yet to find one profession that does not have a high percentage of extremely talkative members.”

“Yes, we have.” I paused, waiting for him to raise an eyebrow at me before continuing, “Private detective.”

He could not smother the amusement leaking into his scowl, and a grin finally broke free as I laughed.

“Fine,” he conceded. “We have not found _another_ profession. Too many people speak more than they listen when it should be the other way around.”

“My mother always said we were given two ears but one mouth for a reason,” I replied, motioning him to precede me out the door.

“My parents said that, too.”

“There is no way you were that much of a talker,” I replied immediately, hoping he would tell me to prove me wrong what he would never tell me otherwise: something about his childhood. I knew very little about the years before we met.

He merely smirked, however, and I knew he had seen through the attempt. His response started a quiet bickering session instead, one that lasted us through supper and well into the evening.

I supposed that was almost as good, but I would keep trying.


	5. Chapter 5

“Watson?”

“Good morning, Holmes.” I looked up from the piece of fruit I had decided sufficed as breakfast. Last night had not left me with much of an appetite. “Anything?”

He shook his head, claiming a piece of toast yet again. He rarely ate a true meal within an hour or two of waking.

“Everyone here loves to talk but refuses to _look,”_ he nearly growled, keeping his voice low in the semi-crowded room. “They can tell me nothing about the habits of any of the employees, nor does anyone have any true idea if non-employees have entered the building. The visitor log is an honor system, extremely simple to avoid, and the mail room is in the middle of a well-traveled corridor. Even a watchful guard could miss a letter’s arrival.”

“How many entrances does that building have?” I had not yet seen the administrative building, but, “I could watch the entrance while you watch the room,” I offered. “We could enlist O’Neill if there is a second door.” That would also put me to work. If these were _our_ cases instead of _his_ , I needed to be helping instead of sitting on the sidelines while Holmes did everything.

He huffed, more irritated at the situation than that I had suggested something he had probably already considered. “That building has over a hundred offices and six points of entry,” he answered. “The mailroom hallway is on the ground floor and has four points of entry. We could watch that building all day and never know if the man we saw was our target.”

“Is there something I can do?”

He again indicated a negative. “Stay in the observatory. They received two more notes yesterday, one to Fiona and one to Conrad. If you see one of the other astronomers, note how they act around the Stewarts. Anything might be useful.”

He disappeared into the crowd before I could reply, and I left a minute later, going the other direction on my way to the observatory workspace Conrad and the Stewarts used for their daytime work.

“Good morning, Doctor,” Ciara said as I entered.

I covered an escaping yawn. “Good morning,” I said after a moment. “Excuse me. I woke far too early this morning.”

Holmes had woken me when he left, but I had already woken thrice on my own.

“Did you dream, too?” Fiona asked, peering at me over a stack of notes. “We were just discussing some strange ones. I have never worried about anything impacting earth, but it was an incoming problem in my dreams last night.” She gave a dramatic shiver. “I was glad to find myself in my room!”

“I had the opposite problem,” Ciara continued. “A strange capsule was due to land in the states, and I was going to be there to greet whoever came out. I woke up as the door opened.”

“Going back to sleep did not put you back in the dream?” I asked, taking my customary seat near the door. “That sometimes works for me.” I knew what it was like to want to get back into a particular dream, whether out of simple curiosity or desperate need.

She shook her head. “It does for me, too, but not this time.”

I looked at where Conrad sat at his desk. “What about you, Conrad? Did you see something strange?”

“My comet grew a face,” Conrad said, shrugging even as a smile crossed his face at the ridiculous dream, “and it began telling me everything about it I wanted to know. I forgot all it said when I woke up.”

Fiona laughed. “Of course you did! That would be too easy.”

“Though,” Ciara interjected, “it _does_ talk to us, in a way.”

Conrad rolled his eyes. “I think I prefer the way that does not involve a large piece of space rock acquiring the ability to speak,” he replied, setting one paper aside to look at the next.

A wide smile prevented Ciara from answering, and Fiona turned to me. “What about you, Doctor?” she asked, still grinning. “We have shared ours. Did you see anything?”

I hesitated, deciding if I wanted to share and how much. “I was in a long, extremely narrow building,” I finally answered, describing the strange dream instead of one that had woken me in a cold sweat. “Everything was metal, and cords, handles, and strange devices filled every inch of wall, floor, and ceiling.” I frowned, thinking. “There was not really a floor, however. I moved by pulling myself on long handles, like swimming through air, and I passed a few other people doing the same thing. All wore the strangest clothing, and some of them had somehow managed to make things float in front of them.”

I had their full attention now, and I continued, “I pulled myself to the end of the long building, stopping in a round room about the size of a wardrobe but one side entirely windows. A large, multicolored orb hung in darkness outside the window. White, green, brown, and blue swirled together in glowing color, but while my view was breathtaking, I wanted to see it better than the window allowed. I went to another room, where a large, metallic door promised an unobstructed view if I put a white suit over my clothes, but I could not don the bulky suit without help. I woke without opening the door.”

Fiona’s wide grin at Conrad’s dream had faded to a look of intense thinking at mine, and silence answered me for a long moment.

“You win,” Ciara told me. “No wonder you woke early.”

I leaned back in my chair, smirking. “It was certainly one of my strangest dreams,” I agreed. I would take strange dreams over most memories any day, however, and I would certainly take this one over dreaming I had been too late after Holmes had been attacked.

“Did the dream tell you where you were?” Fiona asked.

A fragment of the dream tried to break loose, and I hesitated. “It did,” I finally answered, “but I cannot remember it now. International House, maybe?” I shrugged. “The location was not as important as that amazing view.”

“You saw a large, glowing orb?” Ciara repeated. “Did you recognize anything about it?”

I thought for a moment, finally shaking my head. “Very little. It was mostly blue and white. The blue appeared under the white, which swirled above everything to obscure large portions. The brown and green were on the same level as the blue, forming shapes remarkably similar to those I have seen on maps, but I could not see enough to identify it.”

“Could you describe the details well enough for me to sketch?” Conrad asked. “It sounds like something worth seeing.”

“Maybe. We can certainly try if you like.”

He nodded. “We can do that when we break at midday. For now, Fiona, did you get the star chart for last night?”

Conversation deteriorated to numbers, patterns, and equations, and I settled in to watch.

* * *

Footsteps sounded on the other side of the door just after luncheon, and I turned in my seat as a tall, dark-haired man walked in.

“What can I do for you, Sullivan?” Conrad asked.

Sullivan nodded a response to my greeting, moving further into the room. His gaze repeatedly strayed toward where Ciara and Fiona were bent over an equation, but he carefully directed his reply at Conrad.

“Wondered if you would switch me slots tonight,” he replied almost brusquely. “Me niece’s wee lass is sick, and I need to spend the night there.”

Conrad glanced at the Stewarts. “Do either of you have a problem with that?”

They glanced at each other, then shook their heads in unison, and I smothered a smile as Conrad turned back toward his colleague. “We can do that. You had the ten to midnight, correct?”

Sullivan nodded, his gruff “thank you” barely audible, and the door closed behind him a moment later.

_“He likes you.”_

Fiona’s nearly sing-song statement carried across the room, and Ciara’s gaze shot up as her face flamed. The Irish words were not directed at me, but trying not to listen did nothing for my ability to hear. I opened the textbook I had borrowed from Conrad the day before.

_“Fiona!”_ Ciara’s gaze cut towards me.

Fiona brushed her off. _“He is not listening. You can see it, right? Sullivan only comes in here to steal a glance at you.”_

Ciara’s face was still a cherry red. _“Of course, I can see it, but that does not mean I will do anything about it.”_

_“Why not? I know you are interested in him, too.”_

Ciara shook her head quickly. _“It has only been a few weeks. I will not leave you so soon. We can reevaluate in a few months, if he is willing to wait for me.”_

_“You would not be leaving me, Ciara. Sullivan is here just as often as we are.”_

Ciara made no answer, and Fiona sighed. _“Do not deny your own happiness because of me. We will forever miss Kayleigh, and even good men do not wait forever.”_

_“I know. He knows that things might change eventually, but he will not ask until I am ready to answer. I do not think I would be ready yet even if Kayleigh were still here.”_

This topic was none of my business, and I spoke up so they would wait until I was not nearby. “What prank are you planning now?” I called over to them. “I want to help this time instead of being a target.”

Fiona dragged her gaze away from her sister, twisting the object of their discussion to something that would follow the lead I had dropped. “Silent Sullivan needs to speak up more. We should find a way to make him talk.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Whether you can manage that depends on how well you know him. Holmes is easy, provided he is in the right mood. I simply challenge him to a deducing contest. What does Sullivan like?”

“Stars,” Fiona answered immediately, her tone announcing that that should have been obvious.

I rolled my eyes. “Unless you know of a way to put stars in his office…” I trailed off, remembering a case years ago. “Do you have phosphorus, a small paint brush, and any artistic talent?”

Ciara nodded immediately. “The observatory has a small chemistry department,” she told me, “and I heard one of them mention a recent experiment dealing with phosphorus luminescence. Why?”

“Put stars on his office ceiling.” Fiona stared at me, trying to follow my meaning. “Paint phosphorus dots on his ceiling to match the star charts,” I elaborated. “The phosphorus will charge during the day, then illuminate his office as soon as the sun sets. As he usually has the telescope slot after you, he probably spends the early hours of the night in his office.”

Matching smiles spread across their faces. “That is a perfect idea!” Fiona exclaimed. “We should do it tonight, while he is out of town!”

They went back to work, but their conversation drifted no further than planning the evening’s prank.


	6. Chapter 6

“Did you set up that prank?”

“Good morning to you, too, Doctor,” Ciara fired back from behind the pile of star charts on her desk.

I grinned and shut the door behind me. “Good morning. Did you?”

Fiona laughed at us both, always more awake than her sister this early in the morning.

“We painted the current star chart on his ceiling,” she confirmed, “though he has not noticed it yet. He returned around sunrise and went straight to his rooms.”

He had probably sat by the girl’s side all night to give his niece a chance to rest. As one who knew the wearying effects of an all-night vigil, I doubted he would make it to his office before noon.

“Are you going to be nearby tonight?”

Ciara nodded. “If we can. We plan to claim the janitor’s closet across from his office just before sundown. You should join us. Conrad might even station himself down the hall.”

I shook my head. I would go back to our rooms in the hopes Holmes had need of me, and she pointedly looked at Conrad, who shrugged. “Maybe. I’ve never heard Sullivan speak louder than a gruff mutter, and I take leave to doubt this will make him do anything besides growl. He’s grumpy for a youngster.”

Fiona waved him off, still grinning. “Then it is doubly important to be close enough to listen to this,” she replied. “You might never hear it again.”

Conrad rolled his eyes. “Maybe,” he repeated. “Ciara, what is sixteen square root of pi times the derivative of sine thirty?”

“Twenty-four point five six,” she answered, quickly writing the process down on a nearby scrap of paper.

“Four decimal points, please.”

She huffed, erasing a number and rewriting it. “Five, five, nine, eight.”

I just shook my head. I recognized most of those terms, but I had no idea what to do with a few key ones. It was a good thing Holmes did not require I pass myself off as an astronomer.

“Don’t worry, Doctor,” Fiona told me with a grin. “We won’t test you on this later.”

“Good!” I replied, laughing. “That is one test I know I would fail. If I ever knew what a derivative is, I forgot it long ago.”

“It is one compound that is derived from another compound via a chemical reaction,” Holmes’ voice said.

“Wrong topic.” He opened the door behind me, and I continued, “I highly doubt the word means the same thing in mathematics as it does in chemistry, Holmes.”

He merely shrugged, unrepentant. “You did not specify that.”

“I did not know you were eavesdropping,” I shot back. “Conrad should make _you_ solve these math problems.”

He shook his head quickly. “We both know how that will end.”

I chuckled. The last time he had tried to work a problem more complex than balancing a chemical equation, his experiment had exploded. He handed his more difficult math to me, and if I could not solve it, young Nicholas could. That boy did not need any schooling when it came to mathematics.

“Where were you this morning?” I asked. “You never showed up for breakfast.” Not that I had eaten much, but I _had_ waited for him for a while.

“I ate in the employee dining hall,” he answered, ignoring my amusement at his wording. I knew better than to think he had truly _eaten_ anything either. “By the time I returned to the inn, you were gone.” He studied me, and I hoped he could not see how tired I was. The second night of nightmares was always the hardest. I would wake up in a few hours.

“Did you find anything?” I asked, trying to distract him.

He hesitated, glancing at where the others watched us. “Very little. Even your most talkative colleague, Conrad, knows almost nothing about what everyone else does each day.”

Conrad grinned, and his accent came out stronger than I had yet heard it. “We’re too busy mindin’ our own business to mind another’s, laddie.”

Holmes refrained from rolling his eyes, deciding not to voice his thoughts on _that_ concept. He had made a career out of “minding other people’s business.”

“Watson?” He gestured me out into the hallway, and I followed, closing the door behind us.

“What injuries would you expect to find,” he asked when we were out of earshot, “on someone hit by a carriage?”

“That depends on several factors. Did the horses trample them? How many wheels hit them?” I shrugged. “You know this.”

He did not acknowledge my comment. “What about the other direction?” he continued. “Could something else occur that would give injuries similar to a carriage accident?”

“Anything is possible, Holmes. What did you find?”

He shook his head, refusing to answer.

“Last question,” he said instead. “How easy is it to break a necklace?”

I raised an eyebrow, confused at the non sequitur. What did a broken necklace have to do with possible carriage injuries?

“On accident?” I answered, “Far easier than it should be. It is much harder to break one on purpose. Mary used to complain about it all the time.” She had finally stopped wearing much jewelry at all unless one of Holmes’ cases required it, irritated at how often a clasp broke at just the wrong moment.

He nodded and turned to leave, and I called one last question.

“Holmes, do you have a reason for wanting me to stay here while you do the work?”

“Of course,” was his answer, but he hurried around the corner before I could ask what it was. I sighed and reentered the room.

“Welcome back,” Fiona said with a mischievous grin. I rolled my eyes as I took my seat, but she continued before I could shoot back a response. “That was a short clue-hunting trip.”

I shrugged, unable to say exactly what Holmes had wanted. “He does that sometimes. I am well used to it.”

“Seems you have grown used to a lot of things,” Ciara replied. “Is he always like that?”

“Like what?”

Ciara thought for a moment. “He leaves you behind as he chases leads,” she finally answered, “updating you each evening instead of you both working in tandem, and when he comes for you, you disappear for less than ten minutes before returning, but the published cases have you at his side for as much of the investigation as possible. Most of your published cases are resolved in days, but we are well into the week, and he still claims few or no leads. However, we have seen him more relaxed, more…” she trailed off, searching for the right word.

“Human?” I suggested with a smile. She grinned.

“I was trying to find a less insulting word,” she replied, “but yes, more human than he is portrayed during any of your other cases. Do you change everything for publication, or did he change after Switzerland?”

I considered what I wanted to reply. “A bit of both,” I finally answered. “He did change while he was gone, but I also change quite a bit when I publish a case. I must, if only to ensure our privacy and the privacy of those involved, but it also prevents our published cases from enabling someone to escape in a future case. Some of his abilities and mannerisms I magnify, some I ignore.” I resisted the urge to smirk, remembering my ongoing prank. “Sometimes I give him an ability that is truly my own, and vice versa, but, no, I do not change _everything.”_

“What about that eavesdropping?” Fiona broke in. “You have not portrayed him as much of a prankster, but that was a prank, if a mild one. Is he always so laid back?”

I had to shake my head. “Not usually during a case. I have not seen him this relaxed since—” I cut the words off, then steeled myself to continue, “since Mary was alive.”

Conrad’s head shot up from the stack of papers he had been scanning. “’Since Mary was _alive?’”_ he repeated quietly. He must not have heard the Stewart’s discussion that first day.

I nodded. “He and Mary eventually forged a friendship I had not expected to see. She helped on just as many cases as I did, and not always with my presence or prior knowledge.” I felt a grin stretch my face. “There was one case, in the middle of our marriage’s second year, that she pretended to accept an engagement from Holmes.”

Fiona’s mouth nearly fell open. “They were _engaged?”_

I laughed. “Aggie the servant girl and Prescot the plumber were, anyway,” I replied, purposely changing Holmes’ disguise name. This case was not yet ready to be made public. “Holmes was tracking an extremely dangerous man, and Mary took a job in the man’s household to allow Holmes to gain access. When another servant noticed them together, Mary covered by saying Holmes was her fiancée.”

“When did you find out about this?” Ciara asked.

“The next evening.”

“Doctor!”

I laughed again. “Holmes sprang it on me when I met him back at Baker Street. Mary’s disguise had required she stay on her employer’s grounds, and I had moved back into my old room. I do not believe he expected me to react to his news with laughter.”

The idea that _Holmes_ had gotten engaged had so caught me off guard that I had reacted with a hearty laugh, which was at least better than how Holmes had reacted to my own—real—engagement. That laughter had only grown when he clarified that he was engaged to the woman I knew was Mary’s disguise. I could be gullible at times, but I was not _that_ gullible.

“How did it end?” Conrad asked, his slightly subdued tone revealing he was still absorbing the news that Mary was dead.

I chose my words carefully. “The man will never be charged, but we ensured he could not hurt anyone else.”

Silence answered me for a moment, and I could see each of them was struggling to think past a question to another safe topic. I sighed.

“She died in ’94,” I told them, quickly moving on. “Holmes returned a few months later. I looked away from an old bookseller and looked back to find Holmes in my consulting room.”

“Bet that put the heart crossways in you!”

I had to think about that one for a moment, but I finally laughed just before Fiona translated the slang.

“It certainly did,” I replied, deciding not to voice that I had been less startled and more convinced I was hallucinating, “and I scared him in return. I do not think he expected to have to catch me.”

“You fainted?”

“I did. I woke to find Holmes leaning over me, afraid he had given me a heart attack.”

“A smart man like him ought to know better,” Conrad said. “Was it exactly three years?”

“Less one month,” I answered. “He returned in the beginning of April.”

“Serves him right,” Ciara agreed with Conrad, “after disappearing for so long.”

I huffed a laugh. “I think he would rather I faint than hit him,” I replied. “My other option was to color his eye.”

Ciara shook her head. “I will have to disagree with you on that. Our father is a fisherman, and he disappeared once after a storm. He showed up at the house two weeks later, and Fiona colored his eye, as you put it, for scaring us. Our mother fainted. He much preferred Fiona’s reaction over Mam’s.”

Fiona’s cheeks had reddened at the story. “You neglect to mention that he walked up behind me and grabbed me without a word,” Fiona replied. “He is lucky I aimed for his face.”

Conrad and I laughed as Ciara waved her off. “That is beside the point. You still gave him a black eye.”

“Maybe one day I will ask his preference,” I said as Fiona scowled. There were too many other subjects tied to that time for Holmes to open the topic himself, but I knew he would respond if I opened it. He did not have to say anything for me to know that he still had questions about my thoughts in the weeks before his return. That had been a low time for me, one that had taken years for us to work past.

Perhaps I was finally ready to answer some of those questions, but that was a discussion for our Baker Street rooms.

“Do you have anything for me to do today?” I asked.

Fiona separated a stack of papers from their observations the night before, explaining what pattern I was marking, and I settled into my chair as their discussion moved to other things.


	7. Chapter 7

“I am going to the mail room,” Ciara told me the next evening, shortly before I would have gone back to our rooms. “Would you rather come or let Fiona bombard you with the sequences she is comparing?”

I quickly dropped my book and stood, smirking at the protest that came from Fiona’s desk, and Ciara laughed as I followed her into the hall.

“I hope you are not too bored spending the days with us,” she said.

“Don’t worry about that,” I replied, shaking my head. “It is hardly your doing, and Holmes does not have to say as much for me to know he has some other reason for wanting me to stay here. I just hope I am not in your way.”

“Oh, no, Doctor! Of course not.” She nodded a thanks when I opened a door for her. “We enjoy having another to bounce ideas, and your suggestion for that prank on Sullivan went off perfectly.”

The Stewarts had still been laughing over it this morning. Sullivan had not noticed the stars on his ceiling until last night, and Conrad had said Sullivan’s reaction had been clearly audible from the other end of the hall.

“You make me wish I could have been there to see it.” A darkly scowling man caught my eye, and I gently steered Ciara away from him.

Ciara simply rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry about him, Doctor,” she said, making no effort to lower her voice. “He prefers to scowl at us from across the room instead of acknowledging the fact that he hates us because we are female.”

The man’s anger mixed with embarrassment at being called out, and his scowl deepened. I noted his description to relay to Holmes later but made no answer, guiding Ciara into the mail room.

“Doctor.”

I tore my attention away from our surroundings, both watching that man and looking for others paying undue attention, to find Ciara handing me three folded pieces of paper.

“I would rather not know what they say,” Ciara said quietly, avoiding eye contact. Each sister could be strong for the other, but their grief became more apparent as soon as the girls separated.

I nodded and tucked the notes into my jacket. I would give them to Holmes tonight.

“You should have been there,” Ciara returned to our previous topic. “We could have used another steady hand painting all those stars.”

I laughed. “Unless you wish me to write a paragraph, I am not the one with a steady hand. You need to ask Holmes for that. He is the artist of the two of us.”

“What does he draw?”

“Whatever holds his interest.” I feigned irritation. “He has done everything from a pleasant evening in our sitting room to a detailed view of a murder scene, and he does not always destroy the case-related ones. Mrs. Hudson was not happy to find the murder scene in the settee.”

Her laugh was more incredulous than amused. “I would imagine not! Why did he draw such a thing?”

“To use as a visual aid in determining what had happened,” I answered. “The case was outside of London, over an hours’ train ride away, and he did not want to rely on words to recall some of the finer details.” Like the amount of blood spatter and its various locations around the room, but I saw no reason to specify that. “He studied the room thoroughly while we were there, then sketched it on the ride back to the flat. He claimed it helped him solve that case.”

“He does the strangest things,” Ciara replied. “I saw him on the chemistry building’s roof the other day, staring at the building across the street.”

He had mentioned finding a better vantage point, but he had not specified his vantage point being a _roof_. I made a mental note to mention that later, though I could understand why he had done it. He had not counted on my stories being so popular here, and most days, he could not walk the street without worrying that someone was going to recognize him. The recognition was both a blessing and a curse. Any writer enjoys hearing that their work is appreciated, but this would only solidify his order that I not publish again. I would have to content myself with merely writing our cases.

“His methods may be unorthodox, but he always has a reason.” I did not always _agree_ with his reason, but he did always have a reason, something I had known since before we officially met. That first day, Stamford had recounted Holmes’ beating a corpse with a riding crop to study the bruises.

“If he stops the harassment,” she said firmly, “I do not care how he does it.”

He might do more than that. I was almost certain Holmes was trailing something quite a bit deeper than simple harassment, but he had not seen fit to tell me yet, and I would not voice my suspicions.

“He will.”

Fiona interrupted Ciara’s reply as we entered the observatory workspace, and Ciara went to go help, responding to my “good evening” with a wave. I found Holmes already in our rooms.

“These arrived today,” I said as I closed the door.

I dug the slips of paper from my pocket, and he skimmed the contents, the disgust in his eyes revealing that they were probably more of what I had already seen.

“Did the Stewarts read these?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Ciara checked the mail, and she decided she did not want to know what they said. She did not tell Fiona about them in my hearing. Why?”

He refused to answer, but I spoke again before we could leave for supper.

“A man was watching the mail room when we went, not thirty minutes ago. He was about my height but thinner, with brown hair and unshaven face. He scowled at Ciara when he saw us, and she claimed he prefers to scowl at them across the room rather than acknowledge his misogyny.”

“Did he have a scar near his right eye?”

I thought for a moment. “No.”

Holmes nodded. “I have been watching him, but I have not yet eliminated three others that could also be doing this.”

“Just try not to fall off a roof,” I told him, smothering a mischievous grin. “It is bad enough we hear of Father Christmas doing that each December. We do not need Sherlock Holmes doing it, too.”

He barked a laugh. “Who saw me?”

“Ciara. If you do not want to be recognized, try improving your disguise. I know you brought the supplies to do it.”

Turning away to hide that he rolled his eyes at me, he waved me through the door.

“You saw exactly how many disguise materials I brought. Too many of them are well known here. A child walked up to me yesterday and asked if I was the detective.”

I laughed. “And what did you reply?”

He did not try to cover a scowl. “I told her that the London detective was much taller and thinner than I was. By the time she finished considering that, I had disappeared back into the crowd.”

At least he could not blame my stories for that. I rarely described specific disguises during a case, but I did not bother pointing that out.

“What did you find today?”

He refused to answer my question where we could be overheard—he was getting closer to solving this—and conversation turned to other things.

I hoped he solved it soon. Something about this case still felt _wrong,_ and my nightly dreams were not helping. My initial interest had changed to caution. I wanted the case finished.


	8. Chapter 8

“Again, Holmes?”

He glanced back as he walked through the door, again leaving without me. I did not mind spending the day at the observatory, but, our fifth day in Armagh, I would much rather be helping Holmes.

“Unless you want to put on a disguise and wander aimlessly through town?” he asked, hinting that he thought I would prefer doing nothing with our clients rather than doing nothing with or for him. He should know better.

“You know I am perfectly capable of doing that,” I replied. “Why do you not want me along?”

Apology flickered across his face. “It is the other way around. I have reason to believe someone will act on those threats eventually, and the local police do not have enough men to post a twenty-four-hour guard on three people. They are watching the Stewart’s rooms and Conrad’s cottage.”

This was news to me. “How long have you had the official force following them?”

“Since the second night we were here,” Holmes admitted. “The threats have gotten more explicit and more violent since we arrived, and the woman is appearing at the lake more and more frequently. Soon, he must either quit or act.”

“And you think he will act,” I finished, deciding not to mention that my repeating dream had started that night as well. “When?”

“I expected it yesterday,” he answered. “Stay with the Stewarts until I arrive. I will bring an officer with me to station outside the door.”

“We should tell them,” I said before he could leave. “They will stay in a group if they know there is danger. They are already reluctant to separate.”

He hesitated but agreed. “Tonight, when I meet you in the observatory. It will do no good until then. They would stay in that room until morning if Sullivan did not arrive promptly at ten.”

“Silent Sullivan” had nearly lost his nickname after the Stewarts’ prank two days before. Holmes had even heard about it in his surveillance, going so far as to ask me if I knew what the girls had done. The entire department was talking about Sullivan’s reaction when he noticed a familiar set of constellations flicker to life on his ceiling at sunset. He had pretended irritation with the girls, but he had not stopped wandering through occasionally, ostensibly to ask Conrad a question. I could not be the only one to notice that his gaze rarely remained focused on Conrad when Ciara was nearby.

“They certainly would,” I replied with a grin. “Alright. I’ll spend another day watching numbers fly across the room.” He looked at me strangely. “Spend an hour in there,” I told him. “You will understand what I mean.”

He quirked a grin, probably guessing, but the door closed behind him without another word. I finally allowed the yawn I had been smothering. The recurring dream of that long, narrow building was not the only one interrupting my sleep, and each recurrence only increased the wariness I tried to hide, a wariness that combined with my other dreams to make me wish Holmes did not want me to stay in the observatory. I would much rather work with him, if only so I knew throughout the day that he was safe, but our clients’ safety was important, too. I did not bother with breakfast before turning my steps toward their workspace.

“Good morning, Doctor,” Fiona called as I entered their work area. “Another day stuck with us?”

“I’m afraid so,” I answered, grinning. “What is the project today?”

Ciara rattled something about calculating the integral of one function and multiplying it by the derivative of another function. I did not even bother to ask for clarification, merely settling into my chair as I listened to the discussion—and the numbers—shoot back and forth. I greatly hoped I would at least be able to look through the telescope after listening to all this advanced math, but I had yet to be in the same room when darkness fell.

“Doctor, would you be willing to take these papers back to my office?” Conrad asked mid-afternoon.

I hesitated, unsure how to decline, and Fiona glanced up from her desk. “Who are you supposed to guard?” she asked immediately.

Ciara’s attention abruptly focused on me. “You are here on purpose?” she asked, “Not for lack of something else?”

I sighed, nodding as Conrad stood to look at me over the desk he had stacked with papers.

“Holmes thinks the one sending the notes is planning to attack,” I said, readjusting in my place next to the door. “I am not to leave you girls alone until Holmes arrives with a guard to leave outside.” Fiona frowned at the chair, and I knew she had only just realized that I always placed myself between them and the entrance. I had suspected Holmes wanted me to guard them, though I had not known about the police or that he had more than suspicions. “You usually stay in this room all day; we had no reason to tell you before tonight.”

“What does he think will happen?” Conrad asked, glancing at the Stewarts with a frown.

I shrugged. “Expecting one thing and receiving another slows reaction time. All I know is that I am to stay nearby.”

“Does he know when?” Ciara asked. “Wait, dumb question. You would not have been in here for the last several days if he knew when to expect trouble. How far is he from identifying the man?”

Based on his frustration each evening, he was far from where he wanted to be, but I saw no reason to admit that.

“He has several suspects in mind,” I answered instead, “and is working on narrowing the list.”

“What do we need to do?” Fiona asked, drifting closer to her sister—probably without realizing it. I had noticed a distinct protectiveness about her that I attributed to Kayleigh’s loss.

“You are already doing it. Stay together.”

Distress crossed Ciara’s face, and she glanced at the papers in her hand to hide it. “Does this mean Kayleigh’s death wasn’t an accident?”

Fiona’s eyes widened, and Conrad quickly moved to stand next to them as Fiona struggled to smother grief tangled with fear. Three pairs of eyes stared at me, waiting for an answer.

I knew immediately how they had come to that conclusion. Kayleigh had been walking alone after dark when she had been killed, but how could I tell them their sister may have been murdered when we had no proof?

“I don’t know,” I voiced. I could not deny the possibility, but I would not lay that on them without reason. “All I know is that Holmes wants me to ensure your safety while he traces leads.”

“What happened to waiting for tonight?” Holmes’ voice came from the hall.

“It disappeared when they figured out why I sat between them and the door,” I answered as he entered the room. “You are back early.”

“There is an officer outside,” he told me, and I stood, recognizing that he wanted me to come along. He turned toward where Conrad still stood next to the Stewarts. “I doubt anything will happen as long as you stay together.”

His tone was at his most gentle, most reassuring, but Fiona still looked uncertain.

“Was Kayleigh murdered?” she asked.

Holmes shook his head. “I need more information, but I do not think so. We should learn something tonight.”

Her unease remained, but she made no answer. I followed Holmes back into the hall, nodding to the officer as we passed.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“I believe I have found one of his hideouts,” he told me, skipping most of the supporting details as he usually did, “but first, you know of the two empty rooms in our inn. Go to the one at the end of our hall and search the wardrobe. There should be a compartment in the bottom. Grab everything in it. I will take the other and meet you back in our rooms.”

I could do that, though I had no idea why he wanted both rooms searched simultaneously. “What do you expect to be there?”

He did not answer immediately, waiting for a student to pass out of earshot. “Papers,” he finally said. “Anything he does not want someone else to find.”

“’Someone else’ being his wife?” We had long established that the culprit was married, and this would not be the first time that half of a couple had committed a crime without the other half’s knowledge.

“Perhaps.”

He would say nothing more, and I decided he probably did not want to risk being overheard. We parted ways at the building entrance.

I had commented just the day before on how bizarre it was that the hotel had never refurnished the room to use for guests, and I easily found the room he had indicated. Except for the small wardrobe tucked into the corner, the bedroom was completely bare, and I left the door cracked behind me and started searching.

Only a few moth-eaten coats and a couple of pairs of shoes lay inside the wardrobe, and the light from the window brightly illuminated the inside. I felt along the corners, searching for the irregularity that would signal a hidden compartment, but I had not gotten far when a board creaked in the doorway behind me.

That was strange. The landlord used the other room for storage, and I would have expected Holmes to be searching far longer than I would be. I started to lean back to ask what he had found, but I had not done more than half sit up when a hand considerably larger than Holmes’ landed firmly between my shoulder blades and pushed.

The hand shoved much harder than needed to knock me off my feet, and I hit the back corner with a heavy _thump_ that made the small wardrobe screech in protest. My feet followed me a moment later, and the door slammed shut before I could react. Heavy footsteps nearly covered the click of the door as the man quickly left, leaving me locked in darkness.

I had not landed on my old injury, thankfully, and I ignored the discomfort of hitting the back panel as I pushed myself off the floor. No light infiltrated the wood, forcing me to feel instead of look, and I searched in vain for a crack, a loose board, anything I could use to break free. Rattling the door of the wardrobe in Harry’s room had always unlocked it, but this one was much newer, and the boards fit snugly. The lock refused to release no matter what I did.

I could feel the air growing stale, getting harder to breathe, and I forced myself to push through the resulting fog while I still could. The wardrobe was small enough that I had only minutes to escape, and Holmes might not notice me missing for an hour or more. I could not rely on him to find me.

Force did nothing. I did not have the leverage or the room to break open the door, and the thin piece of metal I kept in my sleeve refused to fit well enough to spring the catch. It did push a splinter out to create a small patch of light, however, and I put my mouth to the gap, sipping the fresh air. That would buy me some time.

Keeping my face near the crack, I felt again around the small space, but there was nothing I could use. If my strip of metal was too big, so were shoelaces and coat buttons, and I could find nothing else. I could not even find the hidden compartment, cramped as I was.

Worse than failing him, I would have to be rescued, and I could only hope Holmes noticed my absence quickly. Even the fresh air seeping through the crack would not keep me awake for much longer.


	9. Chapter 9

Holmes dug through the piles of accumulated supplies, trying to move quickly. He had no wish to be caught searching the hotel storage room, but the large inventory slowed him down. If this room stored more than spare pillows, blankets, and the occasional clothes, he needed to find it.

He found nothing in the various stacks, however, and, finally deciding he had searched everywhere, he put everything back where it had been and hurried back toward their rooms. Perhaps Watson had found something.

“Mr. Holmes?” 

The whispered question arrested him three steps down the hall, and movement drew him toward a shadowed alcove. He stopped out of arm’s reach, waiting.

“You are looking for the Stewart girl?” the other person asked. He could faintly spy someone hiding in the shadows, but the whispered voice did not even suggest a gender.

“Something like that.” There was no reason to define his case. “Who is speaking?”

The shape moved rapidly, as if the person was shaking their head.

“Can’t,” they whispered, fear strangling the word, “but you have to make him stop! Find answers here. Don’t mention me!”

A crumpled paper landed at his feet, and a door closed before he could move. Another step revealed the alcove empty, and the paper contained an address, one he had suspected but not yet confirmed as another possible hideout.

This was an interesting development, one that could greatly hasten their suspect’s capture despite the possibility that it was a trap. He thought for only a moment before he shoved the paper in a pocket and resumed his quick pace toward their rooms. He and Watson would check this address first.

“Was there anything inside, Watson?” he asked, their sitting room door slamming shut.

Silence answered him.

“Watson?”

A quick glance confirmed the rooms empty, and he frowned. The other room was nearly bare. Watson should have easily found the small wardrobe’s hidden compartment and returned first. What had delayed him?

He stepped back into the hall and turned left, toward the empty room the inn had never refurnished after a fire had destroyed the previous bed. Something about this was wrong.

A faint noise carried as he drew closer, but the room was deserted when he threw open the door. That was strange, he thought as he stepped inside. Watson would never close himself in a room not his own. Could he have finished after all? Then where had he gone?

“Watson?”

There was no answer, and with the room apparently empty, Holmes nearly turned to look elsewhere. The entire campus knew Watson was a doctor. Perhaps someone had found him and asked for help.

The closed wardrobe caught Holmes’ eye before he could leave, however. Something about it was different from when he had come in here earlier, and he stared at it for a moment, thinking.

Realization slammed into him, and Holmes lunged across the room. The wallpaper was not as faded on one side, and marks on the floor revealed that somebody had moved the wardrobe recently. He could think of many possible reasons for the movement, but only one of them truly frightened him.

He had to push on the door to unfasten the lock, and a small metal lockpick hit the ground with a faint _ping_ as the door opened of its own accord, pushed by the body that landed facedown a moment later.

“WATSON!”

Watson never moved, and Holmes dropped to his knees to roll his friend onto his back. Watson was not breathing, and Holmes’ own breath caught in his throat as he searched frantically for a pulse. He should never have left Watson alone, should have considered that their suspect would attack his friend instead of their clients.

But he had not. For all his deductions, for all his mental acumen, he had failed to note something so completely obvious, to plan against something that had happened before. He had put Watson in danger, and now he could not find a heartbeat.

Watson was dead. He had suffocated in a wardrobe.

No. He refused to accept that. Watson could _not_ be dead.

Memory pushed through the grief and panic trying to take over, recalling Watson’s most recent medical lesson. He had made Holmes practice the resuscitation technique until he could do it correctly every time, and Holmes was grateful for that now. Watson’s arguing might save his own life.

Moving Watson’s arms over his head, air filled that silent chest, then compressions rocked the sturdier frame. He did ten, ignoring the way Watson’s ribs grated beneath the pressure, then gave another breath.

Watson still made no response.

“Please,” he found himself whispering as he resumed compressions. “Give him back. Please.”

Ten one five. That was what Watson had said. Ten compressions, one breath, and if someone did not respond in five cycles, they probably never would.

Holmes shoved the last number from his mind. Watson would respond. He had to. Holmes would do far more than five cycles if that would bring his friend back.

The second round did nothing, and Holmes started a third. Watson was not allowed to leave yet. Not now, not like this. It was _Holmes_ that would die in a case, not Watson. Holmes would solve that mystery first.

Watson had to come back.

“I have hardly followed You well, or even at all, but do not take him yet. Give him back. Please.”

He had no idea from where the prayers had come—he certainly had never been religious—but this was not the first time he had found himself voicing his thoughts in a crisis. He set it aside to think about later. Watson was more important right now.

Ten compressions, then another breath, two breaths, because why not? Restart compressions. This was the fourth cycle. Only one more…

He pushed the thought away again. He would _not_ give up. He would continue until Watson responded or grew cold. Only his task kept the building panic away.

Words flowed with the compressions, skipping as much as his racing thoughts. He had had a client years ago who had been brought back after drowning, and she had said that she had been aware the whole time, watching her rescuers. Listening.

“Come on, Watson. Breathe!

“You cannot have him yet.

“Please wake up.

“Give him back. I need him here.

“Watson, can you hear me? You need to fight. Come back. Please come back.”

Something cold landed on his cheek, and he wiped it with his sleeve, ignoring the moisture. There would be time for that later, if he failed.

He could not fail. Two breaths. No response. Round five.

“Do You listen to those who pray from fear? Nobody has ever given me a straight answer, but I will beg of You to listen now. Give him back. _Please.”_

He was tiring, but he would not give up, not when there was still a possibility of Watson reviving. How long had Watson been trapped?

He had no way of knowing. Ten more compressions. Deny that Watson was probably gone. One breath, two. No response. Resume compressions.

“Ms. Fiona will be heartbroken if you leave, you know, and you will never hear what happened today. You need to come back.”

_Do not take him yet._

“Fight, Watson. _Please._ You cannot leave.”

Eight. Nine. Ten. Check for a response.

_I need him here. Please give him back._

Nothing.

“Don’t go.” The words came out in a desperate whisper. Much longer, and even if Watson did respond, he might never be the same. “Please don’t go.”

Watson gasped.

Holmes froze in disbelief, his hands still gripping Watson’s arms in preparation for another breath. The quick, feeble attempt barely moved any air, and he almost thought he had imagined it, but that small movement was the first sign of life in far too long. Nearly dropping Watson’s arms, he tabbed the faint pulse that grew stronger under his pressing fingers, and Watson gasped again a moment later, obviously trying to inhale though the shallow pants did very little. Holmes released a heavy sigh of relief.

“Thank you,” he breathed, monitoring the thready pulse in Watson’s neck.

Watson tried again, successfully drawing a shallow breath that only half exhaled. Holmes pushed lightly on Watson’s chest, forcing the rest out, and Watson inhaled again when Holmes released the pressure. The gasps slowly steadied into heavy, rapid pants, and color began returning to Watson’s face. His pulse increased, becoming fast but strong.

“Yes. That is it. Open your eyes, now.”

Watson never moved, and Holmes grasped his hand, searching for some indication that Watson was waking as he tabbed the beat in Watson’s wrist. With heartbeat and breathing, he should rouse quickly, right?

They had never covered what to expect in the first moments after resuscitation, and Holmes squeezed Watson’s hand, watching.

“Watson?”

Watson’s nearly gasping breaths continued, but he remained still. Holmes’ worry grew. Would Watson simply never wake up? They had heard of that before, when a drowning victim had been down for too long. Heartbeat had returned, but the man’s mind never had. Five days later, the person had died from _lack_ of water rather than too much. The only thing worse than finding Watson dead would be losing him again in a few days.

“Watson, you need to wake up.”

There was no answer, and Holmes glanced toward the door. They would need to move soon, if Watson did not wake. This room had only one exit. They could not stay here without risking another attack.

Watson’s expression changed before Holmes could figure out how to lift him, however, and Holmes simply readjusted to see the door without looking up from his friend.

“Watson?” he asked after a moment.

Watson groaned around his panting, turning his head away from the noise.

“Can you hear me?”

Watson groaned again, quieter that time, and Holmes tightened his grip on the hand he held. Was Watson supposed to be in pain after this? Had Holmes done something wrong? His friend needed to wake up so Holmes could ask what he needed to do.

“Come on, Watson. Open your eyes.”

Watson’s brow furrowed slightly before slackening, and his face went lax. His gasping breaths became his only movement.

“Watson?”

No answer. Holmes firmly pushed aside the fear that Watson would never fully wake, but he could not quell the apprehension that shot through him.

“Open your eyes, Watson.”

More worry than he had intended leaked into those words, but he could not bring himself to regret the emotion when a frown faintly turned Watson’s mouth. Holmes cupped Watson’s hand in both of his as Watson finally blinked open his eyes.

Watson gazed through him, blinking rapidly as he tried to focus, but Watson’s eyes had not yet fastened on Holmes when his friend stopped trying. Fear shot through Holmes, remembering another day, another case that had stolen Watson’s sight for nearly a week.

“Look at me!”

Just because it had returned that time did not mean it would this time, but Watson blinked again, finally looking _at_ Holmes. Relief battled the remaining fear.

“Holmes,” Watson said a moment later, the quiet word washing away the rest of Holmes’ panic. “What happened?”

Watson’s cold hand gripped his in return, and Holmes helped his friend sit upright, hoping the change in position would ease Watson’s nearly gasping breaths.

“You were not in our rooms when I returned,” he answered, studying his friend to ensure Watson was not hiding some other injury. “I found you locked in the wardrobe.”

“Pushed.” The reply was short, a concession to Watson’s rapid breathing, but the next sentence was clearer. “The air was going stale.”

He nodded, noting everything from Watson’s evidently sluggish thoughts to his general lack of color. “I am glad you taught me that resuscitation technique,” he said simply, refusing to voice the panic that had consumed him when he could not find a pulse. Without that medical lesson, he would be alone now.

He would never admit it, but Watson was not the only one who could not stand complete solitude.

“I’m fine, Holmes,” Watson said after a moment, obviously seeing the continued worry Holmes could not hide. Watson squeezed his hand, then used the contact to pull himself off the floor. “You brought me back.”

His friend paled further, stumbling as he gained his feet, and Holmes quickly steadied him with a hand on his arm. How could he be fine when he was still hyperventilating, could not walk straight, and had barely more color than after he had stopped breathing?

“Are you sure?” Only after voicing the question did he realize an alternate meaning, and relief warred with remaining worry when amusement lit Watson’s gaze.

“That you brought me back?” Watson asked, checking his own pulse. Holmes tried to cover his pleasure with a scowl. Watson still leaned on him to stay upright, but major injuries always dulled his lighter comments.

“That you are alright,” Holmes chided as they walked toward their rooms.

A nod sufficed as Watson’s answer, though Holmes said nothing about the way Watson’s arm reflexively gripped his. He mentally added vertigo to the list of symptoms.

Had he done something wrong? He would never forgive himself if trying to help had injured his friend, though he supposed a few injuries were better than losing Watson completely. He would need to watch his friend closely to make sure all was right.

Their rooms were not far, and he guided Watson to the chair closest to the fire, into which his friend fell more than sat. Holmes looked up from building the fire when Watson shivered and clumsily tugged a blanket over himself.

“What do you need?” That was the safest question, one that acknowledged his willingness to help but would not spark irritation.

“A warm drink would probably be a good idea,” Watson admitted, relaxing into the back of the chair somewhat awkwardly. Another shiver shook his shoulders as he wrapped the blanket tighter, and Holmes smothered a frown at how breathless the reply had rendered him.

He made no comment, however, scribbling a quick note to send to the inspector before stepping into the hall. The passing landlord looked up at the opening door.

“Two cups of hot tea, if you would,” he asked, more focused on watching Watson than the way the landlord tried to edge away, “or whatever warm drink you can find.”

“Of course, sir,” was the man’s reply. “Give me just a moment. A man informed me that he heard someone calling for help from the empty room.”

Holmes’ focus shifted immediately, pinning the man with his gaze.

“Who told you that?”

The words came out hard, nearly sharp, and the landlord tried again to edge away, stammering something about needing to go help. Holmes stepped forward, towering over the shorter man. He did not have time for this.

“The call for help they reported came from my friend,” he said, his low tone conveying just what would happen if the man did not answer him _right now_ , “and I barely found him in time. Only the one who trapped him could have known he was there. _Who told you that?”_

“D-Donelly,” the man finally stuttered. “Hugh Donelly.”

The name confirmed the address still in his pocket, and a step back put him at a more comfortable distance.

“A hot drink and a meal for two,” he said briskly, adding to his note before passing it to the still-nervous landlord, “and send this to Inspector Wright.”

He swept back into the room as the landlord scurried away, and a glance showed that Watson was still breathing far too quickly.

“I’m fine, Holmes,” Watson said when Holmes kneeled in front of him. “Seriously.”

“You are still short of breath.” A frown escaped, but he ignored it, studying how Watson had slouched into the chair.

“I apparently need to make up for the few minutes I went without,” Watson shot back, grinning faintly, and while Holmes was glad at the repeated humor, he could not prevent his frown from deepening at the way Watson inhaled every few words. “Stop worrying, Holmes,” Watson insisted, pausing frequently to catch his breath. “I don’t know how long I was trapped in there,” he continued, “but I know it was a while.” He swallowed. “I found a small crack in the wood I could just barely breathe through, so the air grew very stale before I fell asleep.”

That would explain Watson’s shortness of breath, but Holmes still did not like the way Watson was sitting.

He did not remark on it, however. Watson _was_ getting better, and he would never admit a problem he could hide. Holmes sat in the opposite chair. He would watch Watson for possible side effects, and if his friend could not leave their rooms tonight, he supposed the address would still be there in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watson's POV of this chapter can be found in Bah! Humbug, chapter 10: Undefinable, but it will be outlined later in this story as well.


	10. Chapter 10

Holmes was still staring at me nearly an hour later, and I purposely slipped the blanket off one shoulder. He had built the fire to a crackling blaze, but I enjoyed the warmth more than truly needed it.

“I’m _fine,_ Holmes,” I said again. The vertigo had eased quickly, and my breathing had slowed shortly after, for which I was thankful. Aside from my dislike at feeling so short of breath, my badly bruised rib cage did not enjoy _normal_ breaths. The rapid pants had been more than a little painful, but even describing what I had seen while he was doing compressions had not winded me. There was no reason for him to stare at me as if I might disappear the next time he blinked.

He scowled at me, readjusting in his chair. “Did you see who pushed you?” he finally asked.

I shook my head. “I was reaching for the back of the wardrobe when a board creaked in the doorway. A man’s hand landed in the middle of my back, and he locked the door before I could turn around.” At least he had shoved me to impact with my right shoulder. That forming bruise was far easier to ignore than the one circling my chest.

I half-expected Holmes to be irritated that I had been paying so little attention, but he did not even frown before asking another question. “How long were you in there?”

I thought for a moment. “Thirty minutes?” I replied, shrugging one shoulder. “It was too dark to see anything but the small crack in the wood, but I had barely started searching when he entered the room. Several times, I thought I had tripped the lock, but the door refused to open.”

He readjusted again, and I wondered what he was thinking.

“What did you find today?” I asked when he remained quiet. Perhaps he would stop staring at me if I could direct his thoughts back to the case. “You mentioned a hideout?”

He hesitated, scanning me again. “The address will still be there in the morning.”

I quickly shook my head. I was tired, but I doubted he would want to go now. “We can go tonight. What did you find?”

He still studied me, but he finally answered just before I tried again.

“Someone stopped me in the hall, giving me an address.” Something about that interaction had caught his interest, but I did not get a chance to ask as he continued, “I believe our man is there, and I have enough evidence for the inspector to charge him with harassment, threats, and attempted murder.”

Holmes listed the charges easily enough, but I did not think it my imagination when the last word came out somewhat tighter than the rest.

“When do we leave?”

He paused again, and I realized I was slouching in the chair rather more than usual. The position was comfortable, but I forced myself upright, ignoring the pain lancing through my chest as I did so. I would be sore for several days. My entire chest wall was one massive bruise.

“Holmes?” I pressed when he remained silent.

He huffed at me, but the irritated noise carried an element of yielding.

“We need to leave an hour after dark,” he told me.

Sunset was not for another hour, and I nodded, readjusting again to pull my weight off my bruising shoulder.

“Good. You can tell me what else you found in the meantime.”

He opened his mouth to argue with me, but a knock cut off his reply. He waved me off when I made to stand.

“I will get it.”

I relaxed back into the cushion with a sigh, wishing I had been able to escape the wardrobe on my own. I never enjoyed the attention that came with an injury, but I could admit this _had_ been rather close. Though he would never say as much, finding me like that had scared him.

“Inspector,” Holmes said in greeting, opening the door to let a familiar officer enter. “You checked on the Stewarts?”

Wright nodded. “They are fine. Duncan said they have not left the observatory workspace, and he expects them to stay there for several more hours.” He turned, belatedly noticing me. “Doctor Watson. I am glad you are uninjured.”

I smiled in thanks, ignoring the shooting ache in my chest when I readjusted in the chair. “We are agreed on that. This one escalated quickly.”

“Not as much as it appears,” Holmes interjected. “The man sent the landlord when you did not get out quickly. He did not intend to do more than scare me off the case.”

“I heard some of that,” I replied. “Did the landlord give you a name?”

Holmes nodded. “Hugh Donelly. We will have him tonight, if the inspector will meet us here an hour after sundown?” He scribbled an address on a scrap of paper.

The inspector stared for a moment, possibly recognizing the name, but he did not voice his thoughts. “Of course. Should one other be enough?”

“Two,” Holmes replied. “Either he has an accomplice, and this is a trap, or there is a victim that may need aid.” He described the person that had given him the address.

The inspector frowned but did not argue. “Two it is. Until then.”

Holmes closed the door behind him, and silence fell. I did not try to reopen our conversation. If Holmes had intended to answer my question, he would have done so when the inspector left, and I was content to enjoy the warmth of the crackling flames.


	11. Chapter 11

“Watson.”

Holmes’ voice roused me, and I slowly pulled my head off the side of the chair, stretching gingerly. I usually hated falling asleep in a chair, but I had apparently needed that. I felt much better.

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I found Holmes standing in front of me, leaning against the other chair as he waited for me to wake.

“We need to leave shortly,” he said when I focused on him, and I nodded acknowledgement, not yet awake enough to speak. I had been half-afraid Holmes would let me sleep, either leaving me behind or postponing this for the morning, and I was glad he had woken me. I had merely been tired, and the couple hours’ nap had gone far toward setting me to rights.

I had already established that I had no broken ribs, but I did not expect my right shoulder’s abrupt complaint when I made to stand. A second stretch became a flinch as I pulled myself to my feet.

“Watson?”

I tried to wave him off. “Just sore.”

He made no reply, and I ducked into the washroom, checking my shoulder. I could find nothing more than a deep bruise, however, and his voice came through the door as I was freshening up.

“Alright, Watson?”

“I’m fine,” I replied shortly. I was trying to be patient, as I would be doing much the same thing if our positions were reversed, but I know my tone betrayed that I was tiring of the attention.

He studied me when I opened the door, a frown faintly turning his mouth. “Did I do it wrong?”

I quickly shook my head. Minor injuries—including broken ribs—were common, almost expected during chest compressions. “You did it exactly right.”

“Then why are you still in pain?”

“Think about what you did to my chest, Holmes,” I said as I led the way toward the door. “The force required to restart a heart bruises everything in the area and frequently breaks ribs.”

He lurched forward, his hand on the door preventing me from leaving the room. “Do you have broken ribs?”

There was no need for the distress in his gaze. “I’m fine,” I said again. “I am just bruised.” Badly—and rather painfully—bruised through both chest and shoulder, but I saw no reason to specify that.

He studied me, still frowning, and I knew he was trying to ensure I was not hiding something. I was, but a bruised shoulder hardly counted as an excuse not to go after our suspect, even when combined with my badly bruised chest. There was no reason for us not to go tonight, and I wanted to finish this case. Just because I had decided that my wary caution this last week had to do with suffocating in a wardrobe did not mean I wanted the case to last any longer than necessary.

“Stop worrying,” I told him. “Bruises heal, and they will not interfere with the ambush.”

“You would tell me if I had broken something?” he asked, still studying me.

Only if the injury would cause a problem, but I would not say that.

“You did not break my ribs.” I nudged his hand aside to open the door. “Where are we going?”

He watched me for a moment, probably noting the somewhat awkward gait I used to avoid stretching my painful rib cage, but he followed me down the hall.

“Holmes?” I prodded when he did not answer.

His sigh announced how little he liked this, but the paper he handed me contained an address on the other side of town.

“Isn’t this a house?” I asked when a passing neighbor had left earshot.

“Yes.” His expression said he found it strange as well, but he made no comment. “Inspector Wright should already be there.”

He did not stop glancing at me, but he led the way down the street, cutting through parks and between buildings, and we slowed about fifty yards away from our target.

The house lay on the edge of town, where the buildings were further apart and many cultivated crops nearby. The light of the moon glinted off darkened windows, but a faint light in one showed somebody was home.

Movement caught my eye on the other side of the house, and Holmes and I crept closer, staying out of sight as we closed the perimeter. Spying the signal confirming that the inspector was in his place near the front door, I followed Holmes around back. The inspector and the other policemen would ensure no one escaped through the other door.

Holmes made quick work of the lock, and the back door opened silently. Faint voices carried from stairs leading to a basement nearly indistinguishable from the outside, and Holmes quickly checked the rest of the house before joining me at the top of the stairs. I finally made out the words partway between the floors.

“They would not hire Sherlock Holmes to find me _,_ you eejit!” a familiar voice growled. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

Holmes froze in front of me for only a moment before resuming his silent steps, and I knew he recognized the voice as well.

How could Fiona be here?

“The detective will not be here much longer,” a male voice answered, the changing volume combining with the familiar footsteps to announce its owner paced the room. “He would not hold his friend’s funeral here. Then we can deal with getting you out of town.”

Silence answered him at first. “Funeral?! You killed the doctor?!”

“Not intentionally!” The reply was instant, nearly pleading. “Your precious detective did not find him in time.”

“You killed him! Am I next, then?” Sounds of struggling came from a lit room at the base of the stairs. “Untie me!”

Focused on springing our trap, Holmes had finally stopped glancing at me every other step, but the reminder of finding me in that wardrobe placed the tension back in his shoulders. He strode forward, and I drew my revolver as he stormed the door. Fiona sat in a chair, thick ropes securing her ankles and wrists, and her eyes widened at the sight of Holmes. Donelly noticed immediately. His angry reply cut off as he pivoted on one foot to face us.

“What’re you doing here?” he growled. “Get out of my house!”

He adjusted his footing, obviously intending to lunge at Holmes, but the sound of me cocking my revolver brought him to an abrupt halt.

“It sounds as if you should have told her that,” I answered coolly. I put my back to a wall instead of the open door, and he relaxed out of a ready position as utter surprise crossed his face.

“You’re alive!” he breathed, his apparent relief showing he truly had intended to scare, not kill.

“A fortunate thing for you,” Holmes said, the steel in his tone revealing the thoughts his words would not. Footsteps sounded on the stairs. “In here, Inspector!”

The officer stopped in the doorway, noting where I held Donelly at gunpoint before his eyes landed on Fiona.

“Kayleigh! But you’re—”

“Not dead,” she answered.

Kayleigh? I turned to look again, pocketing my revolver as the inspector’s cuffs secured Donelly.

Kayleigh rubbed her chafed wrists as Holmes worked on the ropes on her feet, and she smiled faintly when she saw me studying her, checking her for injury as I noted small differences between her and her sisters. The easiest one was a half-healed cut above her left eye.

“I am Kayleigh,” she confirmed. “He has been holding me here since he ran over me in the middle of the night. His wife helped when they realized I was injured, but he refused to let me leave. Are my sisters alright?”

“Yes,” Holmes answered. “They and Conrad hired us to trace the source of threatening notes Donelly has been sending them.”

She nodded. “He was trying to ransom me, to make them quit to get their sister back. I realized about day three that they thought me dead, but I had no way to call for help.” She paused, still rubbing her wrists as she watched Inspector Wright and another officer escort Donelly out of the room. “His wife finally found me this morning,” she said quietly when her captor was out of earshot. “She had no idea I was here, probably thought I had left on day two, and I noticed she did not return in time for supper. Did she go to you?”

“She found me in our lodgings this afternoon,” Holmes replied as I moved forward, “and gave me the address.”

“Are you injured?” I asked, painfully kneeling in front of where she still sat in the chair to inspect the cut on her forehead.

She stopped rubbing her wrists, then shook her head when I looked away from the cut. “Just tired of being in this room. He has not hurt me, but I have not even seen the rest of the house. He only untied me for an hour or two a day to let me eat and walk around.” She paused, glancing at the now-empty stairwell. “I frequently heard him yelling and threatening his wife to keep her upstairs,” she added, “probably the same way he was threatening my sisters.”

I awkwardly stood, and she slowly pulled herself to her feet and turned to look at Holmes, one hand on the back of the chair until she was steady.

“Why do they think me dead?”

“There were two cab accidents that night,” Holmes answered, “the second one quite a bit worse. The other woman had your build and hair color, and they found this in her hand.”

He dug in a pocket, revealing the necklace Ciara had shown us the second day. The chain had broken the night Kayleigh went missing, and Ciara had speculated that Kayleigh had been fingering it when she was hit. I wondered why he had it, but now was not the time to ask.

A small smile crossed Kayleigh’s face. “My necklace. I was looking for it when his carriage came around the corner. I did not get out of the way in time.”

“The other woman was injured beyond recognition,” Holmes told her, leading the way toward the stairs as she slipped the necklace into a pocket, “and you were the only one reported missing.”

“So they assumed I was dead,” she finished. “Where are they now?”

“Where else?” I replied from behind her. “The observatory. They will be there until Sullivan arrives for his slot at ten, at least.”

She glanced back, frowning. “But it’s Wednesday.”

Silence answered her for a moment. “I suppose there is something you usually do on Wednesdays?” I finally asked. The Stewarts had been spending every possible moment at the observatory since we had arrived, starting early each morning and not leaving until Sullivan arrived each night, if then.

“We usually pick a nearby hill and leave the observatory behind every Wednesday,” she replied, “except when cloud cover prevents it. Have they left that building at all this week?”

I shook my head. “Just to go home.”

“Hmm.” She made no other reply, following us out to the darkened street and looking around. “I know where we are,” she said before we could take the lead, and she hurried toward the observatory with us close behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone see that coming? Don't forget that I love comments :)


	12. Chapter 12

Duncan looked up from his place outside the observatory door as we approached, and delight filled his expression.

“Kay—!” He cut himself off with a glance at the door, grinning instead. “My, is it good to see you. Do you want an announcement?”

She shook her head, the smile that had been slowly pulling her mouth growing even wider. “Thank you, Duncan, but I think simply walking in will work. Don’t you?”

He unlatched the door for us, but a wider grin was his only reply.

“You can leave,” Holmes said as we passed, but the younger policeman simply stepped to where he could hear the reaction, even if he could not see it.

Conrad was in the middle of reading another equation as we entered, and Kayleigh stopped out of sight, listening.

“Forty-three point two five times x squared,” Ciara replied when Conrad finished. “Assume x is the same as earlier, and your direction is one hundred and ten point seven two degrees.”

“I thought our trajectory was closer to one hundred and twelve?” Fiona asked. A frown crossed Kayleigh’s face, and I wondered what she heard in those words that I could not.

“It was.” Conrad’s voice came from the permanent stack of papers he called his desk. “Our mass changed, perhaps due to a collision? We will have to ask Kay—” He shut his mouth mid word, then sighed into the heavy silence. “Sorry. We can run the calculations after Sullivan takes the telescope tonight. I doubt any of us feel like going home.”

“It’s alright, Conrad.” Ciara’s voice was slightly thicker than it had been a moment before, jarring Kayleigh back into motion.

“Do you think they will find anything?” Fiona asked.

“I think they already have,” Conrad replied. “I doubt Mr. Holmes would have come early for the doctor if he had not found something, but whether it is good or bad is anyone’s guess.”

“Oh, it’s definitely good.”

Kayleigh’s words produced a long beat of silence, then a commotion sounded from further in the room. Three pairs of feet nearly skidded around the corner, and Kayleigh’s sisters sandwiched her between them a moment later.

“Kayleigh!” 

“You’re alive!”

“Where were you?!”

“I can’t believe you’re here!”

“Are you alright?”

Questions flew much faster than she could answer, and she squeezed tighter instead of trying. I looked behind them to see Conrad leaning against the wall, quiet for the first time since I had met him. A large grin split his face as he stared at the Stewarts.

“Glad to have you back, Kayleigh,” he said when she looked up. “It’s been mighty strange not having another Stewart here.”

“Where were you?” Fiona asked, still gripping her sister though she moved to see Kayleigh’s face. “And what happened to your eye?”

Ciara craned her neck to look, and Kayleigh gently pushed away Fiona’s careful inspection of the injury, answering the second question first.

“I slipped trying to open the window a few days ago. It is nearly healed.”

“Open the window?” Conrad repeated, coming closer now that the initial greetings were done. “Someone kidnapped you?”

Kayleigh nodded, nudging her sisters toward a nearby table. Holmes and I took seats at the far side as Fiona and Ciara pushed their chairs as close as they could without sitting on top of Kayleigh.

“Hugh Donelly’s carriage was flying down the street as he always did,” Kayleigh answered, “and I couldn’t get out of the way in time. He took me home when he saw I was hurt, and his wife treated my few injuries, but he refused to let me leave the next day. He was trying to use me as a ransom to make you quit. He interviewed for the same job we eventually got, and he has been sending the notes the entire time, changing his handwriting with each one. It was not until he held me that he grew more daring, but he would not listen to me when I tried to tell him you thought I was dead.”

“How did you know that?”

Kayleigh frowned at Fiona’s question. “Donelly was slightly unhinged and more than a little belligerent, but he was not cruel. He was all threat and no action, at least towards me. He never touched me, but he ranted plenty about how you had forgotten about me, how you were not even bothering to search for me, locking yourself in the observatory instead. The only way you would not try to search for me would be if you thought I was dead. Mr. Holmes told me about the second carriage accident.”

Fiona and Ciara looked back at us, finally remembering we were nearby in the excitement of getting their sister back. I was almost surprised Holmes had allowed Kayleigh to tell even this much of her story without interruption. Ten years ago, I would have had to prompt him to stay quiet.

“Thank you!”

“How did you find her?”

The sisters spoke in unison, but Holmes managed to hear both of them. A smile twitched his mouth.

“Donelly works as a janitor in the administrative building,” he answered. “I had narrowed the suspects to him and one other when his wife found me this afternoon. She saved me several nights of searching by giving me the address.”

“Was she the woman in white?” Ciara asked.

“Yes. I found the dress in the back closet. I believe Donelly threatened her into doing it, likely to scare you and Fiona away, but she did not know who she was pretending to be until she sneaked into the basement this morning and found Kayleigh. That woman is probably just as glad to be free of her husband as you are to have Kayleigh back.”

Nobody answered for a long moment as the others stared at each other, Kayleigh glad to be back with her sisters and the others glad to see her alive.

“There is one more thing,” Kayleigh said before Holmes and I could try to leave them to their reunion. She looked at me. “Why did Donelly think he had killed you?”

Holmes tensed, and his arm just _happened_ to knock into mine as he readjusted. I forced myself to answer before he found his words.

“Because he did.” Confusion and shock, among other things, appeared in every expression but Holmes’, and I continued, “He locked me in a wardrobe. The air went stale before Holmes found me, and Holmes ended up using the resuscitation technique we covered in the last medical lesson a bit sooner than we expected.”

Silence reigned as they absorbed my words. “I would not have expected that from him,” Conrad said quietly. “I knew Hugh in school. He would never have hurt anyone.”

“He would not intentionally do so now,” I answered. “His obvious relief when he saw me proved he had been trying to scare us or make us leave, not kill me, and Kayleigh’s kidnapping started as treating the injuries his speeding carriage caused.”

“Still…” Conrad let the sentence trail off, and Fiona spoke instead, purposely leaning against Kayleigh.

“I am glad you are alright, Doctor,” she said quietly, “and I am just as glad that you both brought my sister back. Thank you.”

Ciara gained the expression of one trying to recall something, and there was another long beat of silence.

“I once heard of someone who had been brought back,” Ciara finally said. “From drowning, I believe?” She thought about it a moment longer but shrugged, looking up at me. “He said he saw the strangest things. Did you see anything?”

I resisted the urge to glance at Holmes as I nodded. He would not enjoy the renewed discussion, but I could hardly ignore the question.

“It is long, though,” I prefaced. “Are you sure you want to hear it?”

She nodded.

“I was drifting,” I began, smothering a wince when an injudicious movement produced a pain in my chest. “A tether connected me to a large, metallic building floating behind me, but I faced toward darkness. Only scattered pinpricks of light broke the unending black, and absolute silence met everything I said or did. The silence was strange, and I wanted to leave, but I had no idea how. Walking did nothing, and a thick full-body covering prevented me from pulling on the line tethering me to that building. My gloved hands slid over the line.”

I studied my audience, watching to see if they would note the similarities I had been mulling for hours. For once, our clients knew something Holmes did not.

“If I could not leave, I decided, could I at least not stare at darkness? Behind me was that strange building. Apparently built of interconnected metal tubes, I would expect to find narrow corridors crossing the inside, and it floated between me and an even larger, glowing orb. I wanted to stare at that orb.”

Suspicion lit Ciara’s face, and I forged forward.

“The orb was spectacular, glowing blue and green in unseen light, and small patches of white swirled in front of the other colors. The green and blue outlines were amazingly familiar, and I wanted to stare at that instead of the darkness, but I could not turn around on my own. I looked for something to use.

“A glance toward that strange building revealed no windows, yet a familiar silhouette seemed to wave at me despite the impossibility. It implored me to come, and I wanted to leave, but nothing I did worked.

“I was growing accustomed to the silence, however. It was rather peaceful, and I thought I might like staying in that placid tranquility. There was no stress, no worry, just drifting. I did not even care overmuch that I could not look at the orb. The silence was too relaxing.

“Then something hit me, sending me spinning in slow circles, first randomly, then toward that strange building. The tether grew taut, slowly drawing me closer with each successive hit. The impacts were more uncomfortable than painful, and I was more curious at their cause than how to make them stop. One finally shoved me against the building and held me there.”

Recognition lit Fiona’s gaze, and I smiled as I continued, “Warmth spread from the contact, eventually settling in my chest with a steady rhythm, and I gasped at the sensation. I faintly heard a voice breathe a ‘thank you,’ though I had no idea who it could be, and a door opened in the metal building still behind me. That silhouette waved again as the line tugged a question. I chose to enter, and I woke to find Holmes leaning over me.”

“Your dream!” Fiona breathed.

I nodded. “They obviously reference each other.”

Fiona shook her head quickly. “No, it’s more than that. It’s an analogy!”

I compared the two dreams, trying to determine what she meant, but Holmes spoke first.

“What dream?”

I quickly explained the dream that had started our second night in Armagh, describing the narrow corridors, the glowing orb, and my inability to get a better view without help, and he stared at me.

“And you did not see fit to mention this before?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Why would I? It was just a dream.” An irritatingly recurring dream—I had seen that same vision at least once every night since—but it was still a dream.

He shut his mouth. Hindsight was always clearer, and even if I had mentioned its repetitions, he would have brushed off this dream just as he ignored any other. He did not take note of dreams unless nightmares were robbing me of sleep, and though my recent nightmares _had_ been robbing me of sleep, they had not yet affected me enough for him to notice.

“There is more to it, Doctor,” Fiona insisted. “The windowed room was the size of a wardrobe, you could not put on the suit without help, and you could not open the door without the suit. Then, once you are out there, the suit prevents you from moving on your own, you are connected to but separate from Mr. Holmes’ location, you are above what is familiar, and your heart did not start beating until you made contact with that building. You dreamed of your own _death!”_

I could not answer for a moment, absorbing what she had said. I could see what she meant: if the building was life, and outside the building was death, then the windowed room was the wardrobe in the empty bedroom, and the suit and tether had been Holmes refusing to let me go. I could not open the door or put on the suit without help because I could not lock myself in the wardrobe—Donelly had to.

“I had not thought of it like that,” I admitted as Holmes edged slightly closer. “Does this mean we need to expect extraterrestrial visitors to land in the states?”

The others laughed, though Fiona had to explain the other dreams to Kayleigh and Holmes.

“I simply hope our comet does not acquire a mouth,” Conrad said.

“I would prefer that over it impacting earth,” Fiona shot back.

Kayleigh could not stifle her wide grin, though it was probably born more of being with her family than at our discussion, but Conrad changed the subject before she could comment.

“Both of you have yet to look through the telescope,” he told Holmes and me, glancing at his pocket watch, “and I doubt you want to return to London this time of night. The skies were clear when I looked earlier. We could break for supper, then show you some of the more interesting stars and planets. Saturn’s rings are visible right now.”

I felt a smile stretch my mouth, and Holmes accepted for both of us. Perhaps I would be able to see the same view I had described to Holmes and that Conrad’s sketch had captured so accurately. Even if we could not see that, however, I had spent the last week in the same building as the largest telescope in the region. It would be nice to finally look through it.

Conversation drifted to other planets and stars visible this season, and we pushed away from the table and wandered toward the door. They started debating the objects we should view through the telescope, ideas flowing almost faster than I could follow.

“Is the spot visible on Jupiter yet? It was almost in sight last I looked.”

“You mentioned reading about nebulas, Doctor. We can look at one of those, too.”

“Don’t forget about that double cluster near Perseus.”

_“Doctor!”_

The Irish word cut through the rapid discussion, and I turned to find O’Neill striding toward us as the others followed me into the hallway. _“I just heard a rumor! Is it true?”_

I chuckled, deciding I had no reason to keep my secret any longer. I waited for O’Neill to get a bit closer before I answered.

_“I don’t know. What did you hear?”_

Fiona broke off mid word to stare at me, and her cheeks flared a brilliant red.

“You know Irish?! You understood all of that?!”

I merely laughed. Fiona’s and Ciara’s conversations had given me far too much amusement to inform them that I understood, and Fiona’s lack of comment on them being identical triplets was hardly her only instance of mischief in the last week. She and Ciara had either caught or targeted me in many pranks, and I felt no shame at keeping this secret for so many days.

Kayleigh understood immediately what had happened, and she laughed just as hard. “You were discussing _him?_ When he was in the same _room?_ Fiona!”

I shook my head. “No offense was taken, Kayleigh, and that was not their only topic. Considering how mischievous your sisters are, particularly Fiona, I simply saw no reason to tell them I understood.”

Fiona and Ciara were still blushing brightly, but that did not stop Kayleigh’s question.

“What did she do?”

I still could not smother a wide grin, and amusement remained in Holmes’ gaze as he watched.

“She started before we left London. Among many other things, I am sure she garnered some entertainment from our reaction that you three are identical. She did not tell us before Ciara met us at the station.”

Kayleigh rolled her eyes, but O’Neill reached us before she could reply. “Kayleigh!”

“Hello, O’Neill,” she greeted, still smiling widely. “I came hoping to get my job back. It is hardly my fault I could not come for the last couple of weeks.”

O’Neill had far too many questions for Kayleigh to do anything but start the story from the beginning, and he joined us on our way to the employee dining hall. Holmes and I followed behind, listening and enjoying the many double-takes the sisters were getting as we walked through campus.

“Did you expect to find her?” I asked Holmes quietly as Kayleigh described her rescue.

He hesitated. “I knew there was a possibility,” he replied. “The police report was clear that the body had been unrecognizable, but I did not know for sure until we heard her talking to Donelly.”

“What were you planning before his wife found you?”

He paused again, letting the others get a little further ahead. “My address was a shack belonging to the other suspect, the man you saw outside the mail room. Provided you found nothing in that hidden compartment, we would have searched that hideout for anything that indicated he was the culprit. Mrs. Donelly prevented me from having to rule out the other man and saved us a few days of looking.”

I had completely forgotten about that small space. I had never gone back to finish searching it.

“What _was_ in there?” I asked. “You went back while I slept, right?”

He nodded. “I found the compartment easily, but it was empty, as was the other room. Everything I expected to find in the inn was under a loose floorboard in that house.”

“What was there?”

“Copies of many of the notes,” he answered, “and ideas for how to get the girls to quit so he could interview again for the job.” A grin twitched his mouth. “A few pages were samples of his work. He would never match the Stewarts in astronomy, much less math.”

I chuckled. “I doubt anyone can match the Stewarts in math.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

I affected a scowl at where Ciara had glanced back at us. They had slowed to let us catch up, and she had caught my reply.

“What do you say we go to that new restaurant instead of the dining hall?” O’Neill asked. “We have not gone there yet.”

The others chorused an agreement, and we changed direction as I decided that, despite the lingering ache in my chest, this had been one of our better cases. Very few cases had resulted in the beginnings of a friendship we had established over the last week, and I found myself almost wishing we would not be leaving in the morning. I could do with a few days to heal, and it might have been nice to spend some time here without an investigation. I would not suggest it, however. Holmes would never agree, for one, and we probably had another case waiting for us back in London.

Holmes’ hand landed firmly on my right shoulder, directly on that bruise, and I smothered a yelp as I jerked out of my thoughts. Pain lanced through my chest again as I reflexively moved out of reach. He had more startled me than hurt me, but pressure on that fresh bruise had been an unpleasant surprise.

He changed whatever he had been about to say as he noted my reaction, and a frown crossed his face. “You are injured.”

The few words carried an entire lecture for hiding an injury, but I waved him off, still scowling at him for startling me.

“I told you. I am bruised.”

His frown became a scowl to mirror my own. “Bruised ribs would not cause pain when I touch your shoulder.”

My scowl faded behind a heavy, irritated sigh. He was entirely too stubborn. “I bruised my shoulder when he shoved me into that wardrobe.” He continued studying me, and I rolled my eyes. “Did you really expect me to announce a bruise? I simply did not expect your hand to land on it. What were you about to say?”

He shook his head as we reached the restaurant, deciding to bring it up later, and we followed the others to a table.

“So, Mr. Holmes,” Fiona said as we sat, “I know Doctor Watson will stay tonight. He has mentioned wanting to look through the telescope several times, but you have all but avoided the observatory the entire week. Are you going to stay? You do not have a case distracting you anymore.”

He huffed, firing back a response similar to what he would have replied if Mary had said that, and I simply leaned back and watched. Seeing Holmes so relaxed was its own reward after such a case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finish! Hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always appreciated!


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